


You'll Believe God is a Woman

by Matiese



Series: Gravity [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-07-03 18:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15824133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matiese/pseuds/Matiese
Summary: Post Season One. Villanelle and Eve both find themselves pulled and pushed by each other's gravity. Their worlds might not stand the test of their chaos.Title inspired by Ariana Grande's song 'God is a Woman' and the idea that there is such depth to these two characters and their relationship. It's almost as if there is an uncontrollable, unstoppable and merciless force around them, like gravity.





	1. Most Nights

Most nights are like this now; hot and unsatisfying. Most nights she screws her eyes shut, completely naked under the silk sheets and her hand works mechanically, gaining speed against herself as she teeters on the edge of pleasure and desperation. Her mind plays images of wild, silky black hair that shines like the ocean at midnight, bruised lips stained deep plum from the wine, and supple, milky skin against hers. But Eve is always silent in Villanelle’s mind; no moans or sharp gasps of breath, just unwavering dark eyes and creased eyebrows staring back at her. It’s not enough. After a few minutes of hard work her hand starts to cramp and it is unfair how unfulfilled Villanelle feels. Some nights she manages to tumble over the edge, just a little wet, feeling her muscles contract and expand but never really all the way. Tonight is one of the nights she just stops at the edge, knowing she can’t tumble. She traces a tired finger up just past her navel, settling on a lump of scar tissue. Pinching at it for a moment, she regains her breath, her frustrated heartbeat settling back down. It had felt like fire consuming her rapidly from the hilt of the knife. Eve’s brows had knotted together and her mouth had gaped in horror as her hand desperately tried to seal the wound. Villanelle closes her eyes, remembering the way her vision had darkened and blurred as she aimed at Eve across the room. If only she had landed the shot. 

The sun rises over Berlin, flooding in through the slanted wall of windows in Villanelle’s airy loft. Squinting and stretching out her limbs, feeling her joints crack and fizz as she rolls off the bed, tucking strands of soft honey blond hair behind her ears, Villanelle walks to her bathroom near the foot of the bed and turns the oxidized brass handle of the tap. She washes the sleep from her eyes and brushes her teeth. She has a job today and is due on a midday flight to London. She hears the front door unlock and swing open. 

“Villanelle?” calls a deep voice with a thick Spanish accent. 

Slipping on the nearest silk robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, Villanelle steps out of the bathroom. 

“Good morning. Coffee, Andrés?” Villanelle offers, a wide smile on her face as she tucks her hair into a bun and moves towards the coffee machine in the kitchen. 

“Yes. Thank you. There have been some changes. We need you to do two jobs in London this time.” The coffee machine starts churning, rumbling low as Villanelle gazes at the man. He’s moved further into the open, light-flooded apartment, settling himself on the weathered leather couch which is quite a distance from the kitchen. She takes his appearance in; his short salt and pepper hair neatly combed back and shadow of a beard framing his olive skin. His arms spread wide across the top of the backrest, his broad chest seeming broader and narrowing dramatically into his hips and crossed legs. He is in good shape. She sees the dirt hanging of his soles, bits fallen to her rug and rudely tracked across the dark wooden floors. She stares blankly at him, feeling a familiar warmth creep up the back of her neck feeding a sudden compulsion to kill him into her mind. Andrés considers her for a moment, eyes narrowing suspiciously as if daring her to make a move. With two coffees made, Villanelle joins him on the couch. The morning sun, omnipresent in the living room-esque area she has created, warms them both as they sip their coffees. 

“You’ll need to be there for a few days. After your first job, lie low and watch your second target. We will provide you with further instructions a few days after the first job is done.” Andrés continues, offering her a second post-card from his jacket pocket.  
“Do you miss your hometown?” Villanelle takes another graceful sip of her coffee.

Andrés places the card on the small glass table in front of them and smiles at her. “I like Berlin.”

“So do I. Do you want to stay for breakfast?” Villanelle asks lightheartedly, picking up the card. 

“No. You should pack.” Andrés lifts himself off the couch and makes a start towards the door. 

“Andrés, por favor! I can give you something satisfying.” Villanelle teases, letting her robe gape dangerously a she leans forward with a pout. She sees his dark brown eyes flicker down from her face to her chest and she blatantly squeezes her arms against her breasts. Andrés quickly corrects his line of sight and walks out. 

After the door slams shut Villanelle rolls her eyes and wraps her robe around herself tighter. Since she killed Konstantin, The Twelve had sent her Andrés. He wore the same grey t-shirt, brown field coat, dark jeans and desert boots every time he visited. A smart choice, he would blend in any city. A peculiar detail Villanelle had noticed was that he smelled of different women’s perfume on occasion. She had sometimes seen the incriminating purple bruises on his neck peeking out from his collar. It was perhaps the only tell Andrés had about him and Villanelle could exploit it if she wanted to. Andrés made it a point to keep his distance, revealing nothing too personal and never staying too long. Villanelle enters the postcard code into her laptop and the screen reveals a photo of a fit middle-aged white man with shoulder-length hair in a well-tailored suit exiting the driver seat of a Maserati. 

“Mister Jonathan Camden. Nice car.” Villanelle recognizes the target as one of the UK’s most influential business men usually seen in and around luxury cars. She had seen in the news that he is the owner of the UK’s largest vehicle export businesses with several law suits currently against him, the biggest being an accusation of cartel behavior. That’s why she was only asked to watch him; with all the heat around she expects paparazzi and increased personal security to be a general problem. Her mind ticks away as she fills her luggage with dresses and suits. Her first target is a woman named Helen Parsons. As far as Villanelle knew, she was a socialite and would be attending a premier function tonight. Were her two targets connected? There was a vague and fleeting feeling that Villanelle should be wary of it. She pushed the feeling aside, not caring for the political or social problems of The Twelve. 

At the airport, she waits in the lounge sipping on a mug of tea. If she finished her job early enough tonight, she might have some time to explore London. Honestly, Villanelle wasn’t sure if Eve would be in the same house, same job, same life. What would have been left for her? A weathered and taxed husband who could no longer understand or appreciate the murderous, traitorous, extraordinary person Eve was? Colleagues who would never know the real Eve and would only slow her down? Eve deserved more, she deserved someone who thrilled her and could appreciate every part of her from her untamed hair to the elegant length of her neck, the creamy skin across her chest, her small but delicate breasts. Villanelle’s fists clench at the thought. 

It had been eight silent months since the stabbing. She had fled down the stairs and into Sebastian’s still empty apartment, wiping the drops of blood from the doorstep frantically before sinking against the closed door and locking it. She had heard Eve’s frantic steps come crashing down the stairs soon after and her voice high and uncontrollable as she yelled out for Oksana. ‘I had better fucking die here or else I’m coming for you Eve’, Villanelle thinks as she struggles to keep pressure against the stab wound. Villanelle heard the heavy footsteps clamber down to the building entrance, then back up again and pace around the trashed apartment above. Villanelle’s eyes land on a staple gun atop a stack of forgotten smooth wooden frames and off-white canvas. Crawling as quietly as possible, she manages to reach it. Peeling her soiled shirt up from her body, she sees the clean edges of skin gaping and the gruesome space between them filling with blood. She pinches the skin together, her teeth sinking into the inside of her cheeks and her eyes welling with tears, the staple gun pressed firmly against the wound. The gun is louder than she expected and the pain is great, she loses the breath she was holding and almost cries out in pain. She repeats. She gets to the fourth staple when suddenly the footsteps above her stop. She stops. She’s exhausted and sure she’ll pass out soon, her blood is cold, thickened and sticky. She takes the risk and punches another staple in with shaky, cold hands for security. She tries to wait a few more seconds, straining to listen for more activity above her. Nothing. Her eyes close. 

By the time Villanelle makes it to The Beaumont in London, it’s already after three in the afternoon. She orders room service; a club sandwich and a side of fries. It’s good. The bacon is still warm, the grease pooling in the crispy cracks and crevices, the chicken is tender and generously coated in rich mayonnaise. She watches some of the thick sauce drip down her knuckle and suddenly she imagines it trailing down a familiar bottom lip, delicate and a little bit shiny with bacon grease. Something deep within Villanelle tightens and pulses, she closes her eyes and darts her tongue out to catch the mayonnaise, almost moaning. She jams the last of the beer battered fries into her mouth, savouring the crunchiness as she starts to fill the bath. She strips off her silk blouse and wide leg trousers, tossing them into the open suitcase. As she sinks her body into the hot water, steam gently billowing up into the luxurious bathroom, she remembers Eve’s wide eyes threatening to burst in fear and imagines her hand around Eve’s neck, how soft the skin had been and how completely terrified Eve was as Villanelle pinned her against the empty bath tub. The elegant black and white dress had been perfect, snug against Eve’s skin, accentuating the perfect curves on the older woman. Her hair was flared out, proud and inviting. Villanelle closes her eyes and licks her lips at the memory. Her fingers tingle as she recollects the way Eve’s throat pulsed desperately under her grip, she could feel the blood pumping ferociously under Eve’s skin and she couldn’t help but squeeze just a little. Eve’s eyes had bugged out even more when she stopped screaming and finally obeyed. With her eyes closed, Villanelle’s fingers caress her own thighs under the warm water, inching slowly to where she was pulsing herself. Reaching their destination, she starts with slow, small circles. Her breath quickens and Villanelle moans deeply, her nipples break the surface of the water and she pinches them with her left hand. The sharp sensation causing her to gasp and her right hand quickens. The circles are bigger now, erratic. She feels her muscles tighten, her abdomen feeling hot, her legs push against the end of the bath. She visualizes Eve sucking on her neck, her small breasts pressed into her own, their nipples erect against each other. Her hips buck against her own fingers and she desperately wants Eve inside her. Her fingers are working even quicker now, her clit deliciously hard and pleasured with each stroke, her muscles coiled impossibly tight. She comes hard, a long moan escaping her mouth. Her chest heaves as she comes down from the high. When she catches her breath she gets out of the bath and wraps a robe around her. ‘Soon, Eve.’ She thinks as she stares at herself in the mirror, feeling a warmth flooding her body. She’s excited for her kill. 

As Villanelle adjust her wig, zips up the sheer navy cocktail dress adorned with a dramatic lace pattern and admires the feel of the soft inner fabric against her skin, the doorbell rings. She opens the heavy door to reveal a package she had been expecting. Ripping off the brown paper wrapping and unlocking the small aluminum case, she pulls out the Beretta Nano to inspect. Satisfied, she slips it into her clutch and secures a blade to her thigh. It’s late in the evening and the Premier has gone on for a few hours now. The Grand Ballroom event space is decorated lavishly with swooping silk curtains, champagne flutes bubbling on every table, iPads sitting in calculated locations of the hall displaying information about the new non-profit social networking app connecting charities with billionaire to make donations and fund-raising activities more convenient. Villanelle scans her eyes across some of the information, scoffing at the unwritten and underlying egotistical way these rich bastards reward themselves with reputational brownie points every time the click the big fun ‘donate’ button. ‘Megalomaniacs comparing dick size’, Villanelle’s annoyance heightens. The party is winding down and she can see Helen making the last rounds, smiling and shaking the hands of pretty women and tipsy old men. She sees Helen check her watch and whisper something to her security detail and sees him promptly speak into the walkie-talkie. 

‘Yes, thank you dear, it was so nice of you to come. Unfortunately, it’s time for me to call it an evening. I’ll have my assistant call you in the morning’. Helen’s Received Pronunciation sounds gentle and pleasant with her low timbre. Villanelle pretends to flick through the iPad as she glances out the main door of the hall. A porter waves at Helen’s security detail and Villanelle takes that as her cue to slip out through the service exit next to the bathrooms. She makes her way across the parking lot, around the corner of the gated exit. Pulling out the pistol, she strikes the card reader and intercom with the butt of the gun. The electronic screen blacks out. Quickly putting the pistol away, Villanelle rubs her eyes aggressively, smudging her mascara and lipstick. She works herself up into tears and pulls a few strands of hair loose from her bun, running round the corner of the hedges. Moments later, a black Mercedes pulls up to the gate. The driver winds down his window and presses the intercom button. Nothing happens. He presses it a few more times.

‘I’m sorry Ma’am, the gate appears to be broken. I’ll need to go get someone to help.’ The driver announces. Helen is staring at her phone and waves him off, ‘yes, yes, fine. Just be quick. Leave me here.’ The driver exits the car and walks briskly back to the hall. Villanelle lets out a loud sob, sniffling and whimpering as she runs around the hedge, towards the car. She holds herself and continues to sob next to the car. The window winds down. 

‘Are you alright?’ Helen peers at her from inside the vehicle. 

‘He- he’s gone! He just left me here! What am I going to do?’ Villanelle cries, her English accent perfectly executed and equally posh. 

‘Were you at the party? Where do you live?’ Helen asks, eyeing the gorgeous navy number against Villanelle’s bright skin. 

‘Yes. Kensington, near Holland Park’ Villanelle responds, knowing it would be on the path to Helen’s own residence in the area. 

‘Hop in.’ Helen responds, reaching over to unlock the door. Villanelle does. 

‘What’s your name?’ Helen asks. 

‘Allison Brown. You’re Helen Parsons. Oh my God. I’m a huge fan.’ Villanelle replies. Helen chuckles and puts her phone into her purse. 

‘Thank you Allison. I have to say, you are absolutely gorgeous in that dress.’ Helen’s voice deepens and Villanelle’s eyebrow arches as she shamelessly drags her eyes down the woman’s figure. Helen’s skin is olive-brown, smooth and inviting. She hides her middle-age well, her clothes and make-up perfectly accentuating her natural beauty. 

‘Thank you. There is something incredibly soft and sensual about the lining behind the fabric. Feel.’ Villanelle moves closer to the woman, her legs parting slightly as her runs her finger tips under the edge of the dress. Helen’s eyes become bright, her breathing quickens slightly and she reaches out to the dress. The front door opens.

‘I’m so sorry Ma’am, they – who, who is this?’ The driver startles as he gets into car. 

‘This is Allison. She needs a ride home by Holland Park. Pronto.’ Helen stiffens and narrows her eyes at the driver. 

Villanelle doesn’t move away; she traces a finger along the hem of Helen’s dress. ‘This is also lovely,’ she remarks. As they drive off, Helen recounts some of her trips to Paris in search of couture and her eyes flutter closed every now and again as Villanelle continues to lazily trace the edges of the dress around her thigh, her arms, her neckline. Her fingers occasionally slipping onto warm skin. 

‘Miss? Where should I take you?’ The driver interrupts as they slowly approach the park. 

‘Just up past the Design Museum’ Villanelle responds, knowing that end of the park will be deserted this late at night. Within moments they approach the museum, the car slowing behind a giant tree. Villanelle leans over Helen, her breath dangerously close to her lips. Helen’s eyes close. Without hesitation, Villanelle slices through her long neck, red immediately spraying across the window. Helen gurgles and eyes open. The car slams to a stop. 

‘What the-’ before the driver can finish his sentence, Villanelle yanks his head back against the headrest, her fingers digging into his eyes and nose as his mouth gapes open. She slices through his neck in one quick motion, feeling the skin give and separate and smiling at the blood spraying across the windshield. Within seconds the driver’s white shirt is instantly drenched in warm red. Villanelle uses the dead man’s hand to wrench the handbrake up and turn off the car. She turns in time to watch the last flicker of light completely extinguish from Helen’s eyes, her face turning stony grey. Villanelle gets out of the car and walks briskly into the shadows of the trees, head bowed low. She feels giddy, she’s pulsing between her legs and her skin is on fire. There’s a stirring inside her like a volcano before the eruption, the lava pushing to the surface. She makes it into a taxi, her insides burning and her mind filled with Eve. 

’39 Piscally St, Ealing.’ She says to the driver, her eyes dilating as she imagines bursting through the flimsy door, charging at the woman who stares at her in shock, her eyes wild. Villanelle will pin her to the wall, crushing her throat while her head bounces off the paneling. Eve will flail and try to scream. Villanelle licks her lips and closes her eyes. She’ll shove the blade hard enough to keep her pinned to the wall like a dartboard. Her neck will taste like honey and milk, slightly salty with fear and panic. Villanelle drags her teeth along her bottom lip and presses her thighs together. 

‘We’re here.’ The driver interrupts. 

Villanelle cases the house a few times, straining to see shadows against the dim yellow lights from inside the house. She circles around to the back door, low in the shadows when it suddenly swings open. Eve stomps outside. Villanelle stops breathing. Eve is in a ratty t-shirt with the neck-hole stretched too far hangs off her even thinner frame and much to Villanelle’s surprise, Eve whips out a cigarette, places is it loosely between her lips and lights it. She puffs furiously for a few moments. The smoke dances through the air and Villanelle’s brows furrow. ‘When did she take up smoking? Why is she smoking?’ Eve stops all movement, suddenly a statue. She sniffs. It’s a small gesture but Villanelle immediately grips her knife tighter, ready to pounce. Eve sniffs again.  
“Okasana?” Eve whispers, but her eyes are looking in the wrong direction. 

Villanelle tucks herself further into the shadows. Eve is convinced. She sniffs again and then breathes in deeply, slowly making her way down the steps. She rounds the corner towards Villanelle’s hiding spot, breathing deeply again and almost choking as she gasps.


	2. What now, Eve?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels like a slow burn for Eve and Villanelle to meet. Rest assured that they will. This short chapter is an attempt at drawing out smaller details and questions about the characters' states of mind. I can't wait to share chapters where we see the intensity of their interactions with each other.

The assassin’s scent engulfs Eve. She stares at the blank wall, there isn’t anyone there. Moments pass and the scent fades like a wave receding back into the ocean. Eve’s heart sinks, she trembles like a storm has blown through her, capsizing any rational thought. She stares, willing Villanelle to materialize. A little way down the road, Villanelle takes cover behind a bus shelter, eyes widened and the knife clenched in her white-knuckled vice. ‘ _Fuck.’_ She burns with menacing, hot magma on the inside but her skin is icy in the midnight air. She has never had a reaction like this before, never felt this swell of emotion and sudden urge to run. Eve had aged and seemed a lot smaller. She hops into a taxi back to the hotel, craving a cigarette and suddenly exhausted. 

Back in Ealing, Eve sits on the worn mustard couch with her head in her hands. She scrapes her nails against her scalp and shakes out her hair. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m going fucking insane, smelling her in the fucking backyard.” She cries out, drawing her fingers through her knotted curls as she unwillingly recalls how she got to this point.

Carolyn Martens had left Eve high and dry. By the time Eve had returned from Paris almost eight months ago, she’d been notified of her termination. Dragging her feet up the steps to her home, the door had swung open and Niko stood in the way. He looked exactly the same.

“You look like death warmed over.” Niko folds his arms as Eve pushes past him.

“I feel worse.”

“What now, Eve?” His question immediately shackled her feet to the spot, her skin crawled, her heart collapsing in on itself as she let her bags drop to the ground. The haunting question dug into her like a stiletto blade right into the gut. She turned slowly toward Niko.  


“You tell me. You always do.” She said, her voice level and her eyes set on his pained face.  


“A cup of tea and bed.” came the soft reply, tenderly. No, it was weak. It was cautious, tired and passive. He could barely look at her and Eve just watched him take her bags and start up the stairs. ‘ _Hopeless. Safe.’_  


“No.” Suddenly she felt dark clouds gathering inside her mind, this electric rage building behind them. She couldn’t contain it. She felt violent and desperate and so lonely. “Stop. Niko. I can’t do this with you anymore.” He stared blankly at her while she rubbed her forehead.

“I love you, Eve. From the voice mails you’ve been leaving, you love me too. That’s all that matters, Eve, that’s –”

“It was a mistake.” the lightning cracks through the clouds.  “I can’t constantly be kept under your lock and key. I’m not the safe little wife with the safe little desk job and the safe little house with the safe little husband! You are safe, and beautiful, and warm, and familiar. You’ll always be Niko, and I’m not that Eve.” Her chest heaves with love, loss and relief.

“So who are you?” He whispered.

Now, Eve is alone in this safe little house and the last few boxes marked ‘Niko’ are stacked in the hallway. A glass of cheap wine sits almost empty on the edge of the coffee table. The floor is scattered with crime scene photos, Oksana’s prison file, Nadia’s file, photos from Berlin, photos of dead marks taped to the walls and windows and a half-eaten, day-old ham and cheese sandwich lies on the couch armrest.  Chairs are stacked precariously with psychology books dog-eared and highlighted. She’s turned the safe little house into one big engine room that operates between chaotic obsession and desolation.  Elena had dropped by a couple of times over the past months, but soon stopped coming as she settled into a new role at MI6. Kenny occasionally sent her an email to check in. It was becoming harder to care about the growing distance she had from her only friends, if she could still call them that. She falls asleep, wishing the night would swallow her whole.

Morning arrives in the form of a shrieking door bell. Villanelle jolts awake and wraps a robe around herself, her soft honey hair tousled. “Room service” a Spanish accent announces. Villanelle opens the door and lets Andrés in. “Breakfast” he says with a smile. “Something satisfying.” Villanelle rolls her eyes but notices the cart filled with golden, flaky pastries overflowing with sticky, glossy fruit and the dark, comforting aroma of coffee rising out of the tall silver bell of a teapot.

“You did a good job last night. They want you to complete the next job on Friday.”  Andrés sits on the bed and reclines on one elbow.

“And what am I meant to do with these two days before then?” Villanelle stuffs a pastry into her mouth, flakes snowing down her robe, glazed raspberries and custard filling her mouth with sweet, buttery richness.  

“Watch. Learn. Find the most opportune time to kill him. Don’t do anything stupid.” Andrés folds his feet, shoes and all, on to the bed. Villanelle stops chewing and watches his shoes leave black scuffs on the sheets. Lava bubbles menacingly inside her.

“Take your feet off the bed. Don’t be rude.” She says dangerously, staring at the offensive footwear. Andrés sits up, dropping his feet to the floor and brushing the scuffs with his hand.

“I am serious. Do not do anything stupid. The whole world is watching this one.” He dismisses her mood.

“Then why have me do it now? Why not wait until not so many people are watching?” Villanelle asks, heading to the bedside table and pulling out the Beretta.

“Just do as you are paid to do. Don’t ask questions.” Andrés eyes the gun in her hand, his own hand reaching into his jacket pocket and staying there. Villanelle smirks at his action and waves the little pistol at him.

“I might need something other than this.”

Andrés sits completely still for a few seconds then bends down to pull back the cloth on the lower tier of the breakfast cart. He drags the large briefcase onto the bed and opens it up, displaying a higher calibre pistol packed into foam along with a few syringes and vials.

“Oh. Did you also bring me bacon?”

Andrés stands, smiles and removes a cloche on the cart. A small plate stacked high with crispy, smoky, ruby bacon sits proudly.   

“How about sausages?” Villanelle smiles excitedly, her voice higher and animated as she puts the gun down on the cart and grabs at the bacon.

“We need you to be subtle. No witnesses and no collateral. You kill him and him alone on this job. Do you understand me?” Andrés stares directly into Villanelle’s eyes, looming over her and holding out a security card and key. “This gets you into his house. The pin to his alarm is 4719.” Villanelle takes the card and key, still focused on the bacon, and Andrés heads for the door, taking the little pistol with him.

Less than an hour across town, Eve sits on the couch in front of the television in the same shabby t-shirt and still without pants. A mug of instant coffee warms her hands as she watches the news.

“Beloved socialite Helen Parsons was found murdered in her private car near Holland Park during the early hours of this morning. It appears that her throat was cut. Her driver was found similarly murdered in the vehicle. The murder weapon was not found at the scene and there were no witnesses.” The reporter’s voice trails off.

“No. It can’t be.” Eve’s eyes bug out of her head as she drags her laptop onto her knees and furiously Googles.

 

Jonathan Camden’s home is a momentous terrace mansion with a rather plain sandy white stone exterior and ornate black steel balustrades. It sits in the suburb of Belgravia; the picture of opulence. The streets are lined with glass windows showing off the wares of exclusive merchants; perfumes, European silk throws, Japanese ceramics, luxury boutiques, cafes and restaurants filed next to each other bordered with tables covered in stark white linen. It’s the kind of place that pleases Villanelle, to a point.  After waiting several hours for paparazzi to dissipate and finally sneaking in, Villanelle discovers that the inside of Camden’s house is that point. It reeks of egotistic design choices. It’s not that the polished, reflective stone walls and equally reflective, dark marble floor were not stylish, they were simply excessive. Villanelle looks around, noticing her reflection in every surface her eyes land on. The house looks barely lived in. It is almost clinical under the LED downlights and sharp lines and edges of the interior. The bedroom is vast and smells of leather and ‘ _Old Spice. Ugh.’_ Wrinkling her nose and raising her eyebrows, Villanelle stares at the ceiling mirror above the bed, watching Eve grip at Villanelle’s scalp, her legs wrapped around her shoulders as Villanelle’s tongue works between them. Eve’s mocha nipples reaching for the mirror above them as her back arches, her hair sprawled across the high thread count. Lava hits the peak of the volcano. Villanelle shakes herself out of the fantasy and continues her hunt for the study.

There are old sketches of classic car chassis and huge photographs of Camden sitting or standing by elegant automobiles framed on the walls of the study. Villanelle searches through the desk drawers and paper on the table when suddenly the iPad lights up with two calendar notifications. The first says “Sabbath” booked in for tomorrow morning and the second being a party at The Ritz on Friday night.  ‘Strange’ Villanelle thinks, ‘tomorrow is a Thursday. That’s not the Sabbath.’ She decides that she needs a special new outfit and decides to explore Belgravia’s streets of couture.

“That’s the one.” The shop assistant shamelessly admires Villanelle’s figure in the black silk tuxedo with gold and emerald accents on the collar and cuffs.

Villanelle steps closer to her. “Do you think it’s the right fit, Rachel?” She reads the assistant’s name tag and licks her lips.

Rachel crimsons. “It’s the perfect fit.”

Only a few hours later, Villanelle has the redhead pinned to the hotel bed and writhing in pleasure against the freshly laundered sheets.

Back in Eve’s living room, Eve hasn’t moved from the couch all day. A million tabs open in her internet browser all related to Helen Parsons. _‘Where are you Oksana?’_ She’s almost convinced it was Villanelle. Almost. She starts to stretch and catches a whiff of herself. _‘Oh god that’s gross.’_ She glances at the calendar on the top right corner of her screen and realizes she hasn’t bathed in three days. Feeling the weight of her filth, she makes her way upstairs to the bathroom. She pulls off the t-shirt and drops it to on the bathroom floor and steps out of her underwear. She makes no move to put them in the laundry hamper. The hot shower melts away the tension from her neck and shoulders. She lathers herself up, dragging her hand across her slippery abdomen after the sponge, up to cup her breasts, snaking up further to massage the space between her neck and shoulders, down again slowly, lazily combing through soft curls and delicately dipping lower between her lips. Eve groans and rolls her neck in pleasure. Her fingers find her clit and stroke slowly. ‘God, Oksana’ she moans. Her finger circles and flicks up and down, building the pressure inside her. It’s almost too much to handle, and god it feels good. She massages her breasts with her free hand, pulling and twisting her nipples and desperately wishing the hot water would turn into Oksana’s hot mouth all over her skin. She needs more, she lets herself crumple forwards, her hand flying from her breast to catch herself on the shower wall. Her fingers slip inside herself and she curls them, thrusting hard.  Eve pants and moans, desperately chasing release. _‘Oksana, Oksana, Oksana. Fuck me. Oh God. Fuck.’_ She replaces her hand on the wall with her forehead and reaches down to circle her clit while her fingers push deeper inside her. She comes hard, her moan cutting off as she feels her orgasm flood over her. The doorbell rings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was harder to write than the first! This fiction writing experience is relatively new to me. I have so many ideas but definitely feel challenged on how to weave them together in a suspenseful way. I love the process of figuring out what Eve and Villanelle would truly say, do, feel and think. Feedback welcome.
> 
> Please enjoy.  
> \- Mati x


	3. Electricity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! Villanelle has a job to do and Eve has an odour issue.

Eve grabs a kitchen knife before opening the front door just a crack and shielding herself.

“Elena. Thank God.” Eve opens the door fully.

“What’s wrong with you?” Elena glances at the weapon in Eve’s hand as she enters the hallway. Eve double locks the door. “Jesus, Eve, what is that smell?”

“Sorry.”

“Oh my God, you’re still looking for that psycho?” Elena hangs up her coat and scans her eyes around the war room in disbelief.

“She’s back.”

“What?!” Elena spins around to watch Eve drop the knife on the coffee table and head towards the kitchen.

“I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I’m pretty sure she’s back. Maybe.” Eve sits down at the dining table, right in the spot Villanelle had watched her from.

“I thought you might go crazy after the news about Helen Parsons.” Elena begins to wash a few mugs and turns the kettle on to boil.

“It was her. I’m sure of it.” Eve’s brows draw inwards. Elena takes the sight of her friend in. Her wet hair like heavy weights on either side of her face, her skin so pale and waxy it makes the dark bags under her eyes stand out even more. Eve is paper thin, like some fragile porcelain shell in the shape of a woman.

“What are you doing to yourself Eve?” The kettle grumbles and dings. Elena sighs softly brews two mugs of tea and joins the skinny woman at the table. Eve offers a small smile as she takes a mug.

“You’re skin and bone, Eve. What happened in Paris?” This isn’t the first time Elena has asked, but it’s the first time she thinks she might get the truth.

“Nothing.” Eve stares at the steam ghosting out of the mug. Elena stares at Eve.

“Everything.” Elena just waits.

“Everything happened and then it vanished into nothing. I found her. I trashed her apartment.”

“While she was there? She must have been pissed off.”

Eve smiles. “No. She wasn’t there at first. It just felt like I had to do it. The apartment looked so normal, so harmless. Then I saw the guns, the perfume, the fucking chic tap in the bathroom, the fridge stocked with nothing but champagne. I had to break it all.” Eve’s eyes look distant.

“So she found you mid-trash?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“Then what happened?”

“I stabbed her.” Elena stops mid-slurp, her eyes wide.

“You what? You stabbed a bloody psychopath assassin? Are you insane? Is she dead?” The questions fire quickly.

“I don’t know. She managed to get out as I was trying to find something to stop the bleeding. She just vanished.”

“Find something to stop the… Are you mad?” Elena’s eyes are at their widest.

“If I wasn’t then, I sure am now.” Eve chuckles and gets up to reach for the pack of cigarettes on the other end of the table. Elena stares. Eve lights up. The first breath feels sticky, bitter-sweet, tingling in her throat.

“Why did you stab her?” More questions.

“Because I could.” Eve takes another drag and expels the sticky smoke. “For Bill, for Frank, maybe. But mostly because I could.” It’s a version of the truth.

“So where is she now? Do you think she’s dead or is she after you?”

“I’ve been looking for her for months. I’ve been looking for The Twelve. I literally have nothing. I have zero. Then Helen Parsons is murdered and I’m sure it’s her. That means she’s in London. Maybe she’ll stop by for a little revenge. It’s been a day and I’m still alive, so maybe I’m wrong. Or maybe she’ll slip into my bed in the middle of the night and stab me.”

“Jesus.” Elena scrunches up her face and Eve merely shrugs.

“What do you want to do Eve?”

“She’s active again. It means there will be another kill. We just have to wait until she strikes again. But why Helen? What’s the link? Why would The Twelve want her dead? Who’s next?” Eve moves to the living room, suddenly energized. “I’m going to find her Elena. This time I’ll… I’ll kill her.” Elena stares in disbelief.

“Eve, maybe it’s time to gi–”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me to give up Elena. I told you. I literally have nothing. There is no one else. I don’t have a job; I don’t have a husband. Niko’s gone, Bill’s gone, you’ve moved on. Hell, even Kenny has moved on.” Eve’s eyes water, her eyebrows are knitted together and her mouth is downturned. Elena knows how raw and beaten Eve must feel underneath all the obsession. She wants to help.

“I’m here for you Eve. You need to snap out of this. You’re wasting away. Let me put in a word for you at MI6. Something unrelated to Carolyn and this psychopath.”

“No. She’s back. I just have to find her.” Eve runs her hand through her damp hair. They’re both silent for a moment. Elena looks at all the books and paper and highlights and circles and tiresome hypothesizing.

“Okay. But you have to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Friday night. David’s got an invite to a party at The Ritz.”

“No, I’m busy.” Elena had been seeing this young budding car designer. She had rattled on a few times about how great he is. Eve couldn’t even pretend to take an interest.

“Eve, please. It has been six months. You haven’t even met David yet. Please. Get out of this stench. Come out just for one night. I promise there will be champagne.”

“Ugh, fine. But I want to be home by eleven.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up.” After Elena leaves, Eve settles back on the couch for another broken night of combing through the same cases.

 

The next morning, Villanelle watches the flock of paparazzi jostle and clamber around Camden as he hurriedly enters his office building. She slips into the lobby and watches him ride the glass elevator to the tenth floor. She catches the next one, noticing a relatively stout gentleman with tight coffee brown curls press the tenth floor button. She follows him out of the lift and goes to fill a cup from the water cooler beside the reception table.

“Yaakov Raz. Meeting Jonathon Camden.” Villanelle takes note of his name and accent. ‘ _Israeli.’_

“Certainly Mr. Raz, He’s in his office down the hall on the right.” The receptionist gestures towards the hallway and the Israeli follows. Villanelle sips and waits until he enters the door on the right and then starts to follow.

“Miss? Can I help you?” The receptionist interrupts.

“Oh sorry, I’m Georgie, Mr. Raz’s new assistant.” The London accent seamlessly rolls off Villanelle’s tongue.

“Oh, please go ahead.”

Villanelle walks just past Camden’s office and slips into the one next door. Camden’s door is still open.

“When will it be done Yaakov?”

“Science takes time Mr. Camden. I expect we’ll have the first shipment ready in a month’s time.”

“I’ll give you three weeks. I want the trial done tomorrow at the party. I have a few potential customers lined up before we get to the States.”

“Mr. Camden, be reasonable. Sabbath is not an entirely stable solution. We have to create enough of the polymer which binds with it in order for it to be stable enough to transport.”

She hears the door shut and the voices instantly cease. Villanelle wrinkles her nose. _‘Ah. Sabbath. A chemical made by a Jewish man. Clever.’_ Villanelle quickly loses interest, it’s none of her business. She’s only here to get a sense of how the man conducts himself. Camden’s office only has one window facing out toward the street. His office is rather secluded from anyone else and the walls are soundproof. From her passing glance as she had walked past, his office was much like his home; gaudy with a large glass table, a crystal decanter sitting on a drinks trolley, everything had straight edges and style over substance. Camden was proving to be the superficial, impatient character the tabloids accused him of being, yet his personal spaces suggested some reclusiveness, some way of always being able to see others rather than being seen. Villanelle could just wait for Yaakov to leave, creep in and murder the poor bastard but it would leave her no time to watch his soul shrivel and retract. _‘Tomorrow’._ She rifles through the papers on the desk in front of her. There are a few contracts signed by Camden to ship engine parts and body kits to the United States and general stock performance reports which show a dramatic red line clearly trending downwards. _‘Business not so good Jonny?’_ Villanelle returns the papers as she found them, bored. The door opens again and she can hear the men exchanging goodbyes. She waits a beat then follows a few steps behind Yaakov. “Goodbye Mr Raz, Georgie.” The receptionist smiles. Yaakov looks behind him questioningly at Villanelle for a second. Villanelle flashes a toothy smile and a wink.  Yaakov smiles back, unsuspecting.

 

After a cloudy, grey morning of sneaking around, Villanelle has worked up an appetite. Masala Jai is a quaint little family run restaurant. The warm aromas of curry spice, ghee and the deep fat fryer match the warm yellow and orange walls. It’s the second half of the lunch rush and it’s noisy with conversation, spoons scraping plates, poppadums and samosas crunching. Villanelle’s mouth waters. London might have shit weather but it also has some excellent curries. _‘And kebabs.’_

After collecting her order, Villanelle sits in a darker corner of the dining room. The Kerala chicken curry in front of her is a deep orangey-brown, finished with a swirl of yoghurt and scattered with jungle green herbs. The fragrance is irresistible. She takes a bite and her eyes flutter closed. The tanginess runs straight to the forefront, the creamy coconut base coats her tongue, there is a sharp bite and light bitterness to the popping mustard seeds. The flavours dance and balance, sending comfort straight into her stomach. The chicken is so juicy and tender. The ghee coated basmati rice is the right amount of oiliness and the perfect nuttiness. Villanelle opens her eyes and continues to eat heartily. She watches other customers come and go, she watches their facial expressions as they talk to each other, the way fingers graze a forearm, or how eyes light up with smiles. Villanelle had fallen in love before. Anna was beautiful. She carried an air of grace and tenderness and matched Villanelle’s lust for the world, lust for places beyond the drab end of the Golyanovo District. The skin of Anna’s hands was soft and left blazing trails on Oksana’s skin every time they touched. Anna was poetic, demanding, curious, patient, gentle, shameless, and stern at all the right times. She ached to know Oksana’s mind and history. She was a window to possibilities Oksana had yearned for; trust and submission and freshly baked bread waiting for her when she got home. For young Oksana, it was all she had and all she needed. One day, in the afterglow as they traced light touches across skin, Anna’s eyes had been distant.  

“I’m married” she had whispered.

Oksana had snorted. “So? I know this. You will leave him eventually.”

Anna had looked pained at this. She stood up and finished buttoning her dress. Oksana’s small apartment was run-down with hardly any space. The mattress was lumpy and sat directly on the floor. The kitchen barely functioned. There was no fridge and only a single chair at the tiny, splintered table. Oksana had been embarrassed the first time Anna showed up with a loaf of dark, nutty Borodinsky bread, still warm from her oven and smelling of sweet molasses. Eventually, Oksana learned to share the space and trust in Anna’s acceptance of it. 

“I can’t. Oksana. I’m sorry. This is the last time. I made a vow to Max.” Anna willed herself to keep it together. Villanelle stared at her, then quietly “so?”

“Until death do us part. I’m sorry, Oksana.” After a few minutes of complete stillness, Anna let her tears fall. She kissed Oksana one last time, her tongue memorizing the taste and yield of her lips, and walked out. Villanelle had decided it was time to deal with Max. 

Done with the curry and unwelcome recollections of ghosts from her past, Villanelle suddenly needs to burn off some steam. She makes her way back to the hotel gym for a few hours.

 

The sun had set hours ago and Eve lay spread-eagled on the living room floor, outlined by pages of scribbled notes and a pizza box still open containing half a cold and frigid pepperoni and jalapeno pizza. Two walls were now entirely covered in printouts of murdered influential figures across Europe. Oksana was most likely not the only operative for The Twelve. Nadia had been one, not on the scale of Oksana’s skill and nepotism from The Twelve, but definitely within the killing web.  There had been several clusters of kills which Eve felt had a distinct signature. It had started when she found reports of a board member of a large mining conglomerate in Tbilisi had been abducted and found with her entrails emptied next to her in an abandoned cobblestone street just over a year ago. It was followed by an abduction of a financial adviser to a large political mining party of the Ukraine only a few months later. The gentleman was found chloroformed and suffocated in a Kiev laneway behind a small dive bar. Eve was positive that these were not isolated incidents, the gory and aggressive methods of killing suggested a modus operando. But she couldn’t quite connect the dots and the language barriers slowed her down in understanding who these people actually were. Why did these deaths matter? Eve didn’t have enough manpower or hours in a day to search for the connecting motive on her own. Her brain fizzled and sparked so many times today that she had short-circuited herself. She had no access to MI6’s list of persons of interest and that seemed to tighten the knot in her gut relentlessly.  Maybe she should take Elena up on the offer, if only to be able to rub the right shoulders for enough favours.  Were all these targets morally corrupt? Eve had been introduced to Oksana’s work over a slimy Russian sex-trafficking politician, a humanitarian aid worker in Budapest who advocated and profited off child slavery, and Grecco the mafia boss who had violently taken over a drug cartel. It might not be an entirely bad thing that these people were dead. But these may be facts that Oksana isn’t even aware of.

Eve stretches her arm to a photograph on a pile of books, shimmying slightly to reach. She looks at the creased photo for the millionth time, teenage Oksana’s face giving nothing away of who she is. Eve had taken the photo from Anna’s house. She’s not sure why she picked this one that looked like a school photograph, but there was something sad about it; maybe it was all the blue and grey tones in the photo, maybe it was the way Oksana’s smile seemed wide but empty. Eve still thought Oksana was an extraordinary person, a remarkable personification of resilience, a mysterious puzzle that had to be discovered; and she couldn’t deny the relief and excitement that Oksana was probably alive. ‘ _She’s a survivor. She’s also a murderer. She’ll probably kill me. I should be on the run.’_ Eve sighs heavily and flicks the photo back on top of the pile. Closing her eyes, Eve tries to breathe the tension out from her body. She’s asleep within seconds.

It’s early afternoon when a stark naked Villanelle closes the hotel room door after Sally and Jackson, the gym-selfie couple that had approached Villanelle the night before and asked if she was looking for some ‘fun’. She had enjoyed teasing the young blonde ruthlessly as the tanned boyfriend sat tied to a chair, a raging hard-on twitching for attention; she enjoyed watching him squirm and grunt, begging to be touched while she thrust her fingers into his girlfriend. He was helpless and excited and at the complete mercy of Villanelle. She had eventually let Sally give him the release he needed while she lay back on the bed, her eyes trained on them but her mind completely absorbed by the image of Eve’s lips wrapped around a cigarette.  Villanelle steps out of the bathroom, freshly showered and rudely surprised to find Andrés sitting in the chair.

“You might not want to sit there.” Villanelle states, her eyes slightly amused. Andrés pulls a face and stands up quickly. He looks around the room, the sheets and pillows tossed around the room, the smell of sweat and fading perfume.

“Let’s go out” he says. Villanelle’s face breaks into a grin.

“You’re buying.”

They find a pub a few blocks down from the hotel, deep mahogany wood paneling along the walls, tall bar stools with cracked faux leather veneer, the floor slightly sticky with old beer, and the heavy-set patrons with backside coin slots all peering at Villanelle drunkenly. Villanelle is not pleased.

“Are you serious?” She asks Andrés. He just smiles and guides her into a booth.

“Urgh.” Villanelle grimaces as she accidentally places her hand on something wet and sticky. _‘Brown sauce. What is this shit?’_ Andrés orders at the bar and brings a numbered card and two beers over to the booth.

“Trust me. The food is good.” Villanelle just blinks at him, dumbfounded. _‘This puta ordered my food for me?’_ He chuckles.

“Villanelle, tonight –”

“Yes, yes, I won’t be naughty. Just the target.” Villanelle rolls her eyes.

“Take this seriously.” Andrés leans forward and lowers his voice. Villanelle cocks an eyebrow at him.

“There must not be any collateral. You cannot screw this one up. No matter what happens, perform your job and only your job. The very second you have completed the job, get out of there.” Andrés reinforces his warning with a glare. Villanelle suddenly feels the impulse to bludgeon him to death with the salt shaker. Thankfully someone places a plate of food down in front of her. She looks down. Two deep fried balls stare back at her, sitting next to a shallow dish of bright yellow mustard.

“What is this?” Her eyes widen as her nose wrinkles in apprehension.

“Scotch egg.” Andrés has picked his up with his fingers and begins to take a bite.

Warily, Villanelle slices the egg in half with the blunt butter knife. The aroma of sweet onions, some kind of spice and sausage meat hits her nose and her mouth waters. The golden yolk in the centre runs out, gooey and glistening.

“Two of your favourite things in one. Sausage and eggs.” Andres has already started on his second one. She takes a bite and nearly moans at the mixture of crispy breading, succulent sausage meat and the soft egg. She chases it with a mouthful of beer and actually does moan. The pairing is heavenly. Andrés smiles smugly at her. _‘Puta’_ she thinks as she scoffs down the rest of the egg.

 

The William Kent House Garden at The Ritz is dazzling with soft, silvery fairy lights bejeweling the dark hedges. There is a long grazing table in the centre of the garden filled with cakes, charcuterie, champagne, fruit platters and soft cheeses. Villanelle sticks to the edges of the party, quietly impressed with the little Eden in the middle of town. She watches the rich and famous flaunt their wealth and admires the feel of the black Gucci suit and white silk shirt she has on. She looks absolutely dashing tonight and knows it. Camden stands by the door which leads into The Grand Hall, also filled with guests and champagne. Villanelle has been lurking for a couple of hours now and notices Camden has kept a very tight radius with the doorway. He begins to check his watch more frequently. Villanelle lets her eyes travel to the entrance and suddenly her chest constricts. She feels like a noose has just tightened around her neck and she stops breathing. A beautiful, dark-skinned woman with a broad toothy smile in a stunning red dress walks in. Trailing behind her is a thin figure, milky skin and wild black hair. _‘Eve.’_ Villanelle blends into a more crowded area of the garden, keeping one eye trained on Camden, the other on Eve.

Her eyes trace the backless pastel mauve gown with a plunging low v-neckline. Eve’s hair is like the ocean at midnight again, dark and voluminous cascading down the silk like the tide coming in. Villanelle swallows deeply. The tops of Eve’s breasts remarkably soft against Villanelle’s lips and her fingers running down Eve’s taut back muscles, which she had fantasized about since that first night in Eve’s house. Villanelle salivates at the thought of Eve’s strong fingers tangled in Villanelle’s hair, Eve’s lips parted as she pants and suddenly wrenching open as she screams, deep red flooding the pale dress as Villanelle disembowels her. The blood is warm and the scent of iron and fear envelops them both. Villanelle quickly breaks her fantasy and prowls a little closer to the woman. The magma begins to ignite deep within Villanelle.

Elena and her boyfriend have gone on to make pleasantries with a few familiar guests, leaving Eve to gulp down champagne in the corner. Villanelle edges closer to her, about to break Eve’s boredom when she catches Camden stride quickly over to a familiar stout man who just entered the party with a small metal suitcase. _‘Shit’_. The two men make their way up the iron and marble staircase of the hall, whispering viciously at each other. Villanelle swiftly follows.

“Yaakov, you’re late.”

“I’m sorry Mr Camden. I have the three samples here for you.”

“Good. I’ve asked a waiter to bring up some hot water for you.” Villanelle spies them entering a conference room, closing the door behind them. She waits hidden at the top of the stairs. A waiter clad in black trousers and a white button shirt ascends shortly after them, carrying a teapot of boiled water on a tray and a weary look on his face.

“Excuse me?” Villanelle whispers out to the waiter.

“Yes Ma’am?” He subconsciously matches the softness of her voice.

Villanelle places a hand softly on his arm. “My friend thought I would miss the party and he’s just gone into that conference room there. I want to surprise him. Would you mind if I took that teapot in myself?” Her prettiest smile graces her face.  

“Sure.” The boy hands over the tray far too eagerly. Once the boy is down the stairs and out of sight, she takes off her suit jacket, leaving her inconspicuously in black trousers and a white shirt. She tucks a strand of her dark wig behind her ear, approaches the door and knocks confidently. “Your water, sir.” Camden opens the door.

“The polymer just needs to come in contact with hot wa-” Yaakov stops talking abruptly as she enters. He is sitting next to a broad shouldered Asian man with neat hair, thick eye brows and a rather gaudy gold Rolex weighing his wrist down as he slams the little suitcase shut. He eyes Villanelle and barely hides a predatory smile.

“Would you like me to serve you?” Villanelle asks, her posh little accent reappearing.

“No- ” Camden starts. “Yes.” The Asian man finishes. He leans back in his chair and spreads his legs. Villanelle flashes him a coy smile as she begins to pour three cups of hot water. She makes a show of constantly glancing at him, licking her bottom lip as she brings over two steaming cups to him and Yaakov. The man smiles like a Cheshire cat as she approaches.

“Oh! Oh!” Villanelle lets out a high pitched cry as she purposely stumbles, spilling the hot beverages all over the two men.

“The case!” Camden screams out from behind her. The men are too busy burning, screaming and jumping to their feet.

“I am so sorry! Oh my God!” Villanelle makes a keen act of distress. “Please, Sirs, follow me this way, there’s a washroom just around here with some fresh towels.” She leads the burn victims out of the room quickly and ushers them into the washroom. She leaves them to clean up, swiftly pulling a pistol from under the back of her shirt and a silencer from her pocket. She assembles the parts and returns to the room where Camden is drying off the case. He looks up at her. She fires. She walks out of the room as soon as his body drops to the floor with the bullet between his eyes, locking the door from the inside. She picks up her suit jacket and hurries down the stairs, brushing past a small man in a tuxedo. Just as she exits the venue, she glances back and her eyes lock with dark ones. They stare at her for a few seconds, wide. Eve’s mouth hangs open and her hand extends forward as if reaching across the hall for Villanelle. There’s no time. Villanelle disappears.

 

It’s close to midnight and Eve’s heart is racing. She waves a dismissive goodbye to Elena and David in the car and rushes through her door, double locking it behind her. _‘Oh my God, oh my God.’_ She drops her jacket and purse on the stairs and heads to the kitchen, breathing heavily and shaking slightly. Her blood instantly turns to ice as she takes in the figure in the black suit in the middle of her war room and she flails her arms around her head, eyebrows knitted and eyes welling with tears.

“I – You – what- I can’t – You shouldn’t –”. Eve struggles. Oksana raises both her eyebrows.

“Oks- I –” Eve is incoherent. Oksana is annoyed. There’s silence. Oksana’s eyes sweep over the photos stuck to the walls, her dark wig discarded on the coffee table, beside the ‘ _knife. Just get closer to the knife.’_ Eve wills her body to move and fails.

“What is the smell in here?” Oksana looks back at her, melodramatically sniffing through her nose. When she gets nothing but crinkled eyebrows and a gaping mouth in response, she drags her eyes up and down Eve’s body. The dress wasn’t quite the right shade for her skin tone, but it was certainly form-fitting. Eve shivers and crosses her arms self-consciously.

“I am hungry.” Oksana announces, walking towards the dining table.

Moments pass before Eve can even take a step. Eventually she places a pot of water on the stove to boil and wordlessly grabs a packet of pasta and a jar of tomato sauce from the shelf. Villanelle watches the exhaustion settle into Eve’s muscles. She can see the way the older woman’s posture has crumpled, her shoulder rolling inwards, her eyelids seem heavier. Eve tears open the bag of pasta, shaking the penne noisily into the boiling water. They stay silent, watching each other until the pasta is cooked and Eve drains it then stirs the jarred sauce straight into the pasta. _‘You’re not even going to cook the sauce?’_ Oksana thinks. Eve carries the two generous bowls to the table and sits adjacent to the intruder, much like the first time they ate together.

“When I visited your home the first time –”

“When you broke in the first time.” Eve seems to have found words again.

“When I _visited_ you the first time, you were wearing some of my gifts.”

Eve’s breath hitches. She remembers the black and white dress, the buttery yet oceanic perfume enveloping her senses like smoke.

“Why?” comes the question through a mouthful of food.

Eve pushes the pasta around, staring at the trails of sauce and sure the flush creeping into her face is just as red. Oksana chews noisily and continues staring at her.

“I had to find you. I needed to feel you. I needed you closer. As physically close as possible, almost as if putting on the dress would make me see something. Feel something.” The sentences barely escape Eve’s lips as a whisper.

“What did you feel?” Oksana swallows audibly.

Eve licks her lips and Oksana’s eyes immediately lock onto them.

“Electricity. Like my skin came alive. I have never put on something that fit so perfectly, as if the dress was meant to be mine, as if the dress knew my body, every curve, every line. It – It was like – like you knew my body.” Eve recollects, her voice becoming shaky and unpredictable in her own ears. She closes her eyes, subconsciously biting her bottom lip and feeling heat radiate between her legs. Eve’s nipples harden and strain against the dress. Oksana stares.  

“It was like you knew me before I did.” Eve finishes, her eyes still closed. Oksana leans in, far closer than Eve expects and her eyes snap open. She breathes in deeply, sandalwood and leather and citrus and jasmine wrapping her in a heady space. Oksana’s lips are at Eve’s ear. Eve feels drunk; she squeezes her legs together and bites her bottom lip again.

“Do you feel electricity now?” Oksana whispers, her voice low and gravelly. Eve gasps, literally feeling a shock of warmth and wetness between her legs. She is sure Oksana can hear her heart pounding and she so badly wants to feel her lips against her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delayed update. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please do leave comments/feedback. 
> 
> Mati


	4. Omelette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve and Villanelle have entered a stage of questioning in their lives, whether they like it or not. Villanelle can only be ignorant of the chaos in and around her for so long and Eve has to get off the couch and start doing something if she wants answers. When these two forces of nature meet, one might consume the other entirely.
> 
> Warning: sexual content

It exhilarated Oksana to know that she could evoke such depths in Eve and how it had tormented the woman for the past months. She sat back in her chair and watched the flush deepen in Eve’s hollowed cheeks.

“You’ve become smaller.” Oksana pushes the half-eaten bowl of pasta away.

“I’ve been too busy to eat.” Eve begins to collect the dishes, frowning slightly at the leftover pasta.  

“Busy looking for me?” Oksana watches her, admiring the way the silk shines on the curve of Eve’s hips and ass.

“It’s not just about you.” Eve snorts. She stands a few steps from the table, refusing to sit again. “What do you want now, Oksana? You did your job and killed Helen Parsons and I bet we’ll hear the death of some other significant figure at the party in tomorrow morning’s news. Who did you kill? Why are you still doing this? Why are you here? Are you going to kill me?” Eve didn’t have a chance to investigate earlier at the party. Elena and David had been far too social and far too present for Eve to sneak away. Instead, Eve feigned a stomach upset and they had chosen to escort her home out of kindness.

Oksana is tired of the questions, she stands up abruptly and before Eve can take a breath, Oksana’s hand is wrapped around her throat and she’s pinned against the fridge. _‘Again?’_

“You talk too much, Eve.” Her hand squeezes the long, sinewy neck.

“I. Stabbed. You.” Eve chokes out. Oksana stares at her, heavy-lidded and statuesque. The grip around Eve’s neck hasn’t loosened. It’s the first time they’ve touched since the stabbing and Oksana can feel the rush of blood and heat saturating Eve’s face. She leans in close and stares at Eve’s lips. The lipstick has mostly gone, there’s just a shadow of a smudge and her breath smells of tomatoes and sugar. The pulse under her fingers drums intensely. _Fear. Arousal._

Oksana lets go of the smaller woman, letting her gasp air back into her lungs, and walks back into the living room.

“These.” Oksana points her right index finger like a gun, one eye squeezed closed and the other staring down her slender digit at photos slapped haphazardly against the wall. “Are not mine.” Her finger circles comically.

Eve is back to breathing normally and walks to the photos. _‘Are we just going to ignore the stabbing?’_

“Uh. Yeah, I know. Kiev. Tbilisi. They’re not quite your style.”

Oksana snorts. “What is my style?”

Eve turns and traces her eyes over every part of Oksana. Her hair a slightly darker shade of blonde, her skin still smooth, tight, glossy, maybe just a little bit paler. Her eyes still bright, mottled green and grey with as much complexity as her personality. The suit sits on Oksana’s frame perfectly, the contrast between the dark suit and light shirt brings out every beautiful angle of her figure. There has always been something tantalizing about the mix of masculinity and femininity in the assassin. Oksana definitely had her own powerful, sensual style. Eve licks her lips and notices Oksana’s eyes lock onto them again. It must be her tell. “You want to kiss me.” _‘I want you to kiss me’._

 

Oksana smiles, hauntingly. She steps close to Eve and tucks a rogue curly strand of hair behind Eve’s ear. She lets her fingers linger, tracing down Eve’s jaw, the length of her neck, brushing across her collarbone and down the silky neckline of the dress. Her finger stops just above the swell of a breast. Oksana feels the magma inside bubble and rise.

“Or maybe I want to kill you.”

Eve is panting a little, adrenaline coursing through her veins. “Do you?”

“Do you like it when I touch you, Eve?” Oksana looks directly into Eve’s eyes, watching her emotions swim. Long seconds pass before Eve makes the slightest nod. Eve bites her bottom lip and watches as Oksana’s eyes snap down to watch the small action.  The magma has reached the edge and Oksana feels her heartbeat quicken, her wanting is undeniable and she will indulge herself.

“I’m going to kiss you now. Okay, Eve?” Another slight nod.

Oksana lifts Eve’s chin and brings their lips together. Eve’s lips are the softest thing Oksana has ever experienced. There is a hint of sweetness and suddenly Oksana wants more. Eve’s lips part slightly and Oksana traces the underside of Eve’s top lip with her tongue. It sends shockwaves through Eve and her breath hitches. Eve drags her hands from Oksana’s hips up the front of the nice suit, moaning as they pass over Oksana’s breasts. She pushes gently, guiding them both to the couch. Oksana lands first pulling Eve’s hips down into her with one arm and tangling her other hand in Eve’s wild mane. Eventually one of the hands finds and undoes the zipper. Eve bites down sharply on the lips between her own and sits up, straddling Oksana. Eve runs her hand through her unruly curls, brushing them back out of her face to get a clearer view of the beauty beneath her with swollen lips and dilated pupils.

“Eve.” They’re both out of breath and Oksana’s accent is thick with want. Eve shimmies out of the dress and Oksana’s eyes darken, intensify. Eve’s breasts are small and her nipples are the exact colour Oksana had imagined. The cold air hardens Eve’s nipples and Oksana automatically reaches for them. Brushing her thumbs over them, palming the soft flesh, watching in complete awe as Eve’s eyes flutter closed and a deep rumbling moan escapes her.

“I want to see you.” Eve’s fingers tremble but work quickly to unbutton Oksana’s shirt. _‘I want to see the scar’_.

Oksana rolls her hips, hungry for friction.  “Eve.” She growls.

Eve finally pops open the second last button and sees the knotted scar tissue, paler than the surrounding skin. The edges of the wound are slightly out alignment. She brushes her fingertips slowly over the scar and sees goosebumps rise in their trail.

“Eve!” Oksana becomes impatient and sits up abruptly to crash their mouths together. Eve is almost thrown off balance has no place to put her hands except wrap them around Oksana’s shoulders. Oksana kisses the woman hungrily, roaming her hands over as much bare skin as possible. Eve’s hips start to roll, matching the rhythm of Oksana’s.

“Off. Take your clothes off.” Eve is panting, her face flushed and her thighs squeezing Oksana’s hips. Oksana obliges and shakes off her shirt and jacket swiftly. Eve places her hands on Oksana’s shoulders, pushing her back slightly to take in the sight of Oksana undoing her lacey satin bra. The material falls away and Eve licks her lips again as she stares at Oksana’s perfect breasts. Oksana’s nipples are larger than Eve’s and a light dusty pink. Oksana takes Eve’s hands and moves them to cup her breasts, leaning in to the warm touch and rolls her hips.

“Oh my God.” Eve’s mouth is still open. Oksana chuckles and leans in to take one of Eve’s nipples into her mouth. “Oh my God!” A little louder and a little more enthusiastic. Oksana drags her teeth over the soft flesh, sucking and kissing as Eve’s hands find the nape of her neck, tugging slightly on the honey-blonde hair. Eve’s hips have a mind of their own, grinding desperately into Oksana, Eve’s pants become short, soft moans.

“Fuck.” Eve’s body grinds harder as Oksana’s fingers press against her clit over her soaked underwear.

“Please. Please.” Eve is bucking wildly, fingernails digging into Oksana’s scalp as she sucks on her neck. Oksana pulls back.

“Look at me.” Oksana stops all movement and waits for Eve to obey.  Eve’s eyes snap open, her breath ragged and hot. After a beat, Oksana rips Eve’s underwear causing the other woman to gasp. “Oksa- ah, fuck-” words are lost as fingertips find Eve’s clit, slick with desire and heat. Oksana continues kissing Eve as her fingertips circle Eve’s clit lightly, slowly, then drags the length of her middle finger steadily against it. Eve’s body is on fire, her mind is completely lost, she breaks the kiss to gasp and moan, her hips rising to meet the long finger. She cries out as she feels two of them enter her, reaching deep and curling upwards. Oksana thrusts powerfully into Eve, loving the feel of her velvety walls and muscles beginning to clench. Her thumb resumes pressure and steady strokes against Eve’s clit, her fingers stretching and massaging Eve’s center. Eve is riding her hand up and down, desperately pumping herself towards climax. Her moans are loud and guttural, her muscles clenching faster and tighter. Oksana’s other arm is wrapped around Eve, steadying her into a rhythm. Eve cries out, her voice breaking and her body jerking. Oksana watches Eve’s eyes clench shut, mouth open, neck long. For a second, she glances at the knife on the coffee table, her free hand itching to slash the blade across Eve’s exposed neck. Instead, Oksana’s fingers still their movements but curl further in, coaxing out every last shockwave as she feels wetness pool into her palm. She kisses Eve’s neck and jaw and mouth. Eve’s eyes are still closed, she’s panting heavily, crumpled forward with her head resting against Oksana’s. They stay like that for a few minutes, Oksana withdrawing her fingers and wiping them clean with the dress.

Eve starts to kiss Oksana, deeply, her fingers weakly fumbling with Oksana’s trousers. Her hands are stopped by tight grips around her wrist.

“No. It’s okay.” Oksana says softly. Eve searches Oksana’s face for a predatory sign.

“Is this when you kill me? I can barely move to defend myself.”

Oksana laughs, and pulls them both down to lie back on the couch. “Sleep, Eve.” She pulls off the dress and torn underwear and drops them on the floor. Eve shakes out the throw to cover them.

“What the hell are we doing? Seriously, do I close my eyes and suddenly you snap my neck?” Eve protests, yet finds herself cuddling in closer to the warm body beside her.

“Sleep.”  It’s barely minutes before Oksana hears Eve’s breathing even out into a light snore. Her eyes scan the walls of the room, taking in every picture. There are a lot of kills she doesn’t recognize and she can’t shake the concern at how widespread and disabling The Twelve might really be.

Eve wakes to the sound of sizzling oil and the kettle rumbling. She wraps the throw around her and walks to the kitchen. Oksana is at the stove, hair still obviously wet from a shower, last night’s white shirt tucked into her trousers but the buttons mostly undone and her sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms.

“Are you staying?”

“No. I’m just hungry. Your pasta was shit.” Oksana looks up at her, folding the golden omelette over the caramelised mushrooms and onions. She places the perfectly crafted food on to a plate, spreads a little butter over the surface and adds a finishing pinch of salt and sprinkling of chives.

“For you.” Eve takes the plate, her eyebrows knitted right back into the center of her forehead. Oksana has already started the second omelette.

Wordlessly, Eve sits down at the table, wrapping the throw around her tightly and begins to eat. The eggs are fluffy and tender, rich with butter. The caramelised onions are soft and sweet. The mushrooms still have a little bite to them and there’s a spike of acidity that runs through them, tying the whole dish together. Eve moans.

“This is incredible.” Eve looks over at Oksana who appears to be frozen to the spot; spatula in one hand hanging in the air, plated omelette in the other hand, perfectly placed, and Oksana’s eyebrows raised high.

“What?” Eve stares back, worry beginning to settle into her eyebrows again.

Oksana resumes movement, taking her seat adjacent to Eve and digging into her breakfast. “I like it when you moan.”

Eve colours with embarrassment and Oksana laughs at her. “Where did you even find all these ingredients?” Eve tries to change the subject.  

“The store on the corner.” Oksana replies, mouth full. Eve knows the one. It’s the one Carolyn had taken her to.

“I- oh. I need to, um, shower.” Eve pushes her plate away.

“Finish it. Then take a shower.” Oksana points at Eve’s plate with her fork.

Eve is so confused; she doesn’t know which emotion to process. She simply obeys and suddenly feels exhausted. Within a few minutes she finds herself being led by Oksana up the stairs and into the bedroom.

“Eve! Call the police!” Oksana suddenly cries out dramatically, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

“What? Why? What? W-w-w” Eve spins around, eyes wide, legs wide, arms wide.

“Your room looks like it has been tossed to shit. You’ve been robbed!” Oksana giggles at Eve’s defensive stance. “Oh, Eve, you should see yourself right now. You look like a high school wrestler.”  

Eve returns to normal. “Dickhead. Don’t do that.”

“Seriously, what is going on here? Are you always this messy?”

“No. I’ve just… been busy.” Eve folds her arms in front of her, voice trembling, eyes cast down at the dirty laundry littering the floor. Oksana decides this defensive stance is not one she likes. Eve looks smaller, weaker.

“Shower and change, Eve.” Oksana walks out of the room.

Eve, freshly showered and sporting old jeans and a pilly knitted sweater, finds Oksana back on the couch sipping a cup of tea and watching the news. It’s the party from last night. Blasted on screen is a photo of Jonathan Camden shot dead.

“Oksana…” Eve stares at the woman, panic settling into her face. Eve quickly grabs her mobile phone from the coffee table but she can’t even unlock the damn thing before Oksana has a knife against her abdomen and her other hand grabbing painfully at her hair.

“Don’t do that, Eve.” Dark eyes bug out at emotionless green-grey ones. _‘When the fuck did she even pick up the knife off the table?’_ There’s a long moment of silence before Eve realises Oksana is leisurely combing her fingers through her damp curls. The prick of the knife point against her unwavering in pressure and sharpness.  

“I’m not going to turn you in.” Eve says it before realising she actually believes herself.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I have something else in mind.” Eve hands over the phone. Oksana smirks, and takes the device.

“Like what?” Oksana wiggles her eyebrows, taking the knife away.

“This.” Eve waves her hands dramatically at her investigation covering the walls. “Like, who did this? Who are The Twelve? You must have a new handler. Who is it? What are The Twelve planning?”

Oksana’s eyes glaze over. _‘Enough with the questions.’_ She checks the clock. It’s only after 7am but she needs to get back to the hotel room before Andrés does.

“Goodbye Eve.” She drops the knife into the floor and picks up her jacket.

“Where are you going? What about this? Say something.” Eve follows her to the door. _‘What about me?’_

Oksana spins around, crashing her lips against Eves, her tongue sliding in and teasing Eve’s. Eve’s hands automatically find Oksana’s hips and draws them closer. Oksana breaks the kiss, smiles, and leaves Eve dizzy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I apologise for the long gap between the last update and this one. I have been on a trip recently. Hopefully the next update will not be so overdue. 
> 
> Just a thought ... Inga's death in episode 7 was absolutely brutal. For me, it was quite a powerful moment in discovering Villanelle's character.
> 
> Another thought... my partner doesn't know I write fan fiction. I'm thinking of showing her this one. She loves Killing Eve as much as I do. 
> 
> Mati


	5. Gazpacho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to life, Eve. Orgasms can be extremely healing.

Stripping out of her clothes, Villanelle stretched out her limbs and lays back on the hotel bed naked. She unlocks Eve’s phone. The code never changed. _‘Too predictable, Eve.’_ She flicks through boring messages between her and Elena. They’re all the same superficial ‘Hi. How are you? Did you watch last night’s episode of Bake Off?’ followed by the most mundane of responses. The conversation with Niko ended six months ago with Eve’s final ‘I’m sorry.’ Villanelle rolls her eyes. Niko was a creature of habit who settled into a routine that simply contained Eve. He saw a wildness in Eve and felt the need to tame it. He feared it and that’s what started the unravelling of their relationship. He was safe weight keeping Eve tethered within his routine. Eve’s wildness should be celebrated, worshipped, admired. Villanelle switches over to flicking through Eve’s photos. There are dozens of screenshots of articles on psychopaths, personality quizzes, wine bottle labels, a few selfies, but much to Villanelle’s disappointment, no nudes. Eve’s search history is just as dull; more psychological babble, ‘how to get a broken cork out of a wine bottle’, ‘how to meditate’, ‘how to feel happy’, ‘happy song playlist’.

About an hour later, Andrés unlocks the hotel room door and is greeted by the smell of light smoke, magnolia and rosemary. He looks at the offending candle burning on the bedside table behind a very still and very serene Villanelle sitting cross-legged on the floor in a bathrobe. Strangely, Pharrell William’s crooning voice fills the room with instructions to clap if you’re happy.

“Villanelle? What are you doing?”

Villanelle’s mouth opens, rounded and wide. Suddenly a loud and long “ommmmm” escapes her, her hands slowly coming together in a prayer-like motion in front of her. Andrés bursts out laughing. Villanelle carries on the chant for another few seconds before snapping her eyes open.

“That is rude. I am meditating.” Villanelle stops the playlist on Eve’s phone and slips it into her robe.

Andrés tries to contain his laughter. “Sorry, sorry. Yes. You look very peaceful.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a thick wad of Euros. “You’ve done very well Villanelle. A bonus.”

Villanelle accepts the money. “It was too easy. I didn’t get to enjoy it. Guns are overrated.”

“We needed this one to be quick and relatively painless. You should go back to Berlin as soon as you can.” Andrés opens the minibar and selects a bottle of orange juice.

“Why?”

“The press is all over this one. Your next job is being issued, but you should head home and repack.” He gulps the juice, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Villanelle is surprised at how quickly the next job has been lined up.

“It must be a busy time of the year for The Twelve. I meant why did this one have to be quick?” She asks, daringly.

Andrés’ eyes narrow. He’s never known the assassin to ask questions or mention his employers. “Well if you like getting paid you should be grateful for the busy season. It had to be quick because we said it did. I’m sure you’ll have more fun with the next one.”

Villanelle knows she has pushed far enough for the time being. She shrugs. “Okay.” She comes up close to Andrés and takes the half full bottle of juice from his hands. She keeps eye contact as she downs the rest of it, licking her top lip slowly. His eyes don’t leave hers, but Villanelle sees them dilate ever so slightly. “Do you want to have lunch with me Andrés?” Her robe slips off one shoulder on cue. Andrés glances at the smooth exposed skin. His Adam’s apple bobs again as he swallows.

“You have to stop playing these games, Villanelle. I don’t sleep with my assets.” Andrés pulls a plane ticket from his back pocket and tucks it into the robe. 

Villanelle chuckles. “Assets? So I’m not your one and only? Careful Papi, I may get jealous. How many do you have?” Villanelle asks while looking at the ticket. Her flight back to Berlin is scheduled for later tonight.

“Villanelle.” She looks up. His face is stark and serious. She keeps her own face childish and animated, stuffing her hands in her pocket and gripping the small switchblade she kept concealed.

“You’re asking a lot of questions today. Silly questions.” He wags a finger at her and her grip tightens on the blade.

“I’m just making conversation. Now go, I wish to meditate in peace.” She presses play on the phone in her pocket and Pharrell Williams resumes his falsetto. She sits back down on the floor and keeps her eyes closed until she hears Andrés leave. As long as she stays on his good side and can keep having these digging conversations, she might find out just a bit more about who pulls the strings in The Twelve. Villanelle loves her job, it affords her every desire she has, but her life is dictated by some unknown force. This isn’t true freedom and it pisses her off. It wasn’t entirely her choice to kill Konstantin. He had grown to be a friend and she had become fond of Irina. It was an uncomfortable situation. Someone should pay the price for putting her in it.  

 

Eve watches the sunset as she grinds her cigarette butt into porch step. It’s been a mind-fuck of a day and she’s no less confused than she was this morning. Annoyed at the fact that her phone had been taken, Eve had spent the day spiraling into a state of anxiety, tidying up the living room and overhauling her bedroom. _‘Not because the dickhead pointed out how messy it was’_. She was walking a fine line between flooding relief that Oksana was still alive, and complete dread at the fact that, well, the assassin was still alive and knew where she was. Just because she wasn’t dead yet didn’t mean that Oksana wasn’t planning on torturing and murdering her eventually. But that wasn’t the part that caused Eve to smoke a whole pack of cigarettes today. It was the fact that she had moaned and begged and come, hard, shuddering, completely undone in Oksana’s hand and she loved every moment of it. The neurons in her brain were firing like comets and Eve was sure that she was different today than any other day in her life. For the last eight months she had felt muted, like she functioned in the world in this sluggish, washed-out, meaningless way. Suddenly it was as if that fog had lifted and colour had been restored in the world. The way Oksana’s eyes had been completely focused on her, the way her fingers applied the right pressure and moved the right way, the way Oksana growled Eve’s name. _‘Fuck.’_ It was like Oksana was the key to everything; cosmic orgasms, unholy thoughts and _‘The Twelve’._ Eve’s thundering resolve had been restored. She’d find The Twelve or die trying.

Walking back into her neat living room, Eve almost jumps a foot in the air.

“Jesus Christ!” She shouts, hand over her chest as if to stop her heart exploding.

Oksana smiles at her from the couch. “I see you did a little cleaning.”

“You’re back. You need to learn to stop randomly and silently appearing in my house.” Eve states, involuntarily eyeing the gorgeous woman in the black skinny jeans and deep emerald silk blouse. _‘Fuck.’_

Oksana waggles Eve’s iPhone at her. “You need to learn to take better selfies. Sexy ones. I’d like that.” Eve blushes.

Oksana approaches Eve. “Did you think about me today, Eve?” She puts her hands on Eve’s hips, pulling them against her and kissing her neck. She sucks and licks, and kisses the space between her neck and collarbone. It drives Eve wild.

“Y-Yes” Eve breathes out, her hands grab at Oksana’s head, lifting it so their lips can finally meet. Oksana obliges, kissing her heatedly. Eve can already feel wetness between her legs and she wants nothing more than to hear Oksana moan and look deep into her stormy eyes, but she pushes back gently.

“Stop.”

Oksana stops every movement and removes all points of contact, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Eve has never said ‘stop’ when Oksana has touched her before. Eve has never _rejected_ Oksana before. The stabbing wasn’t so much rejection as it was misdirection. At least, that’s what she tells herself. The magma bubbles and hisses inside her and she suddenly feels the need to pick up a weapon. Her eyes flash to the pen on a nearby stack of books. _‘Maybe jammed through her neck and into her carotid artery.’_

“You don’t want me to touch you?” Oksana asks, her voice low and face passive.

“No. I mean, yes, God, yes. But I think we need to talk.” Eve rambles, her hands waving and her hair splaying. Oksana’s eyes follow the animated curls, loving the way her hair gets bigger and thicker with each gesture. No words come out of Oksana.

Eve continues. “It’s weird we’re not talking about it!”

“What is there to say? We fight, we fuck, we do what we want.” Oksana replies, her hands finding their way into the thick waves.

“What do you want?”  Dark brown eyes connect with dark grey. Eve shivers. Electricity.

 _‘You’_ Oksana thinks but hides any trace of emotion on her face. She doesn’t respond. It only serves to frustrate Eve further. Eve breaks the eye contact and goes to the kitchen. Oksana follows.  

“Oksana, I have nothing. In case you haven’t realised, you have consumed every good thing in my life. I am jobless, husbandless, friendless.”

“But did you die?” Oksana’s voice is nasal and taunting.

“Did you… just quote Mr Chow from Hangover?” Eve spins around, bewildered.

Oksana laughs then becomes serious. “Grow up, Eve. You made choices. I am not responsible for your depression. I, on the other hand, almost did die thanks to your stupid choices.”

“I’m not depressed.” Eve counters. Oksana raises an eyebrow. _‘I’m not depressed anymore, now that you showed up.’_

“Why didn’t you? How did you survive?” Eve asks, taking down a packet of pasta and a jar of sauce from the shelf.

“Stop.” Oksana’s turn to reject. “I may have survived you stabbing me, but I cannot survive your cooking.” Eve looks like she’s been slapped, ponders a second, then nods in agreement.

“You have a lot of questions.” Oksana states. “I don’t have time. I am leaving tonight and your constant talking might just turn me celibate. I am not fond of nuns.”

“Where are you going?”

Oksana blinks. Another question. _‘Seriously?’_ Oksana tries to quieten the volcanic urge to shove a tea towel into Eve’s throat and a knife into her gut.

“Sorry.” Eve folds her arms, sensing danger. “I never thought I’d see you again. You’re a lot less talkative than I remember.” Eve looks away.

Oksana walks closer to the small woman, a little turned on by the smell of cigarettes and shampoo and the sticky desire to kill. She pulls out an old mobile phone – it looks like a small silver brick, with keys too close together and a sickly greenish, yellow screen. “If you want to keep talking to me, use this. It is a burner phone. I’m not done with you yet, Eve. If you tell anyone about me, I will kill you, them and anyone else they love.” Oksana’s face is a deadly mask, her eyes boring into Eve’s. _Danger_. The small woman has gone pale, her mouth dry. She nods and takes the phone. Terror settles into Eve’s stomach. Oksana has been aggressive since her return, but this is the first time Eve has ever seen her deadly. _‘Yet?’_

Oksana heads towards the door. “It would be a shame to kill you right now Eve. You kiss so well and I love to watch you orgasm. Oh. And I have questions of my own.”  Eve stares at the door as it closes, feeling dizzy as a tornado of confusion, fear and loneliness engulfs her. _‘What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening.’_

 

Villanelle enters her Berlin loft just after midnight. There, in the silver glow of moonlight on her dining table is a post card. She makes no move to retrieve it, collapsing onto her bed instead. Her scar throbs and her mind is consumed by Eve and the hammering of her questions. Eve wasn’t wrong, she did talk less since the stabbing. Eve wasn’t aware of the ripple effects the wound had. A permanent rage at Villanelle’s own vulnerability and naivety had grown fiercer with each passing day of healing. Letting her guard down was a choice, and after all, Villanelle had been gracious and rather nice in promising she wouldn’t kill Eve. But the woman had taken advantage of that and all grace had expired. Promise be damned, Villanelle would not allow Eve’s rudeness to go unpunished. In fact, Villanelle would enjoy Eve’s drawn out, painful death. The syrupy, mineral warmth of blood covering every inch of skin, the horror in Eve’s eyes slowly setting like alabaster as life leaves her, the way a blade would feel entering into her flesh, ripping through her skin, tearing into her organs. Villanelle’s eyes flutter closed. It had all changed the second Villanelle had seen Eve; fragile, tortured. A very unfamiliar feeling had overwhelmed Villanelle, slamming into her like a bus unexpectedly, crushing the fantasy. She was consumed by this powerful, inescapable urge to touch Eve; to cause _pleasure_ , not pain. If Villanelle was completely honest, it scared the shit out of her how quickly her murderous intentions had evaporated. Villanelle falls asleep to the memory of fingertips ghosting across her scar, moans in her ear and wetness between her thighs.

 

 _‘Ugh. Fucking hot.’_ Villanelle kicks off the sheets, the midday sun blasting at her through the windows in full force. She rubs her eyes open and licks at her dry lips. Rolling out of the sun’s rays, she glances at the post card on the table. “Barcelona”. The magma roars to life within her. She showers quickly and places a pot of water on the stove to boil.

Konstantin had watched over her completing a job in Spain one summer. They had a few days to relax afterwards before flying back to Paris. He had complained constantly about the heat, but he had indulged in many conversations about history, Villanelle’s training, philosophy and killing techniques along with many icy cocktails. It was one of the first moments she became aware of a connection to Konstantin. It was one of the very rare moments she had felt normal, like someone on a lazy vacation with her friend, perhaps.

She takes several tomatoes from the fruit basket on her kitchen island and makes light gashes in their skin with a sharp paring knife. They tumble into the boiling water followed by a generous pinch of salt. Thirty seconds later, she fishes the tomatoes out, runs them under the cold tap water and peels the skins off like thin sheets of rosy wrapping paper. Green ribbons soon join the red as Villanelle peels a small cucumber, biting off the end and enjoying the refreshing, juicy crunch before hacking it up into small pieces.

Villanelle’s creativity thrived in the Spanish air and the job she did was one of the most fun. She had exploited the target’s fetish for submitting to a dominatrix. She enjoyed the theatre of his jerking and flailing body after his neck snapped in the studded leather leash turned noose, and enjoyed the powerful aura she felt around herself in the tight, black halter jumpsuit complete with riding crop. She used the crop later on the curvaceous ass of a gorgeous Catalonian shopkeeper with charming smile lines and graceful but fiery passion in her middle-age.  

The soft, fleshy tomatoes and the cucumber end up in the blender along with a bulging garlic clove, some more fine salt, a river of deep emerald extra virgin olive oil, cracked white pepper, a slightly stale bread roll out of the fridge, and a shot of Russia’s finest Mamont Vodka. The blender fires away, whirring aggressively and the gazpacho inside turns a light red. She stops to taste and smacks her lips. _‘Perfect.’_ She dishes up a small bowl and goes to sit at the dining table with her laptop and the postcard.

Her next target pops up: Rodrigo Casilla, a portly middle-aged man with a deep tan and hair dyed too dark for his age and scheduled for death by the end of the week. Villanelle Google searches. Rodrigo turns up immediately right next to the title “Chief Operating Officer of Luana Automotora”. _‘Cars again?’_ She clicks through a few images, stopping at a cheesy photo where Jonathon Camden has his arm around Casilla’s shoulders. They’re both showing thumbs up between two very beautiful women standing in front of a vintage sports car.

The front door clicks. Villanelle exits the internet browser and folds the laptop closed. Familiar boots walk into the room.

“Andrés. Buenas tardes.” She sips at her gazpacho. He smiles and takes a seat opposite her. “We are seeing a lot of each other. I’m starting to think I might be your favourite _asset_. Care for some gazpacho?”

Villanelle gets up and pours him a small bowl. Andrés visibly brightens. “Buenas tardes Villanelle. Si, gracias.”

She watches him eat. He sips cautiously at first, then eagerly shovels spoonfuls into his mouth.

“Mmm. This is very good gazpacho. It reminds me of my grandmother’s.”

Villanelle makes it a point to not look at him after the unexpected comment, but focuses on a few mouthfuls of her own. “Your abuelita’s?” she asks casually, perfectly accented.

“Yes. She used to make it in the summer, the men would come back from work in the afternoon exhausted by the sun and the labor. This refreshed them.” More slurping from him.

Villanelle stops and looks at Andrés. This is the first time he has shared anything personal and it surprises her how intimate the fact is. Andrés smiles at her.

“You’re a good cook Villanelle.”

“The best out of all your assets?”

“Maybe.” Andrés shrugs. Villanelle’s interest piqued, she scoops up the very last bits of red deliciousness from her bowl and stares at him.

“Do you want to come to Barcelona with me?”

“Yes, actually, and then I will need to take some leave after this job is completed.” He finishes his soup.

“Vacation?”

“Something like that. I will be gone for two weeks. It would be good for you to also take some time off too. You went straight back to work after your recovery.”  Andrés collects the bowls and takes them to the sink. Villanelle watches him suspiciously. He begins washing the dishes. “We will go to Barcelona tomorrow and you will complete the job by the end of the week. After that, do what you want but stay out of trouble while I am gone. I will see you back in Berlin. Any questions?”

“Where are you going and why?” Villanelle asks plainly.

“You know better than to ask.” Silence. “I will see you at the airport tomorrow Villanelle.” Andrés leaves, quickly and without looking at her. Villanelle watches him exit, eyebrows as high as they go. Something icy crawls into Villanelle’s chest; an unwanted feeling that seems to accompany the disturbing flood of emotions that comes with Eve. She digs out a burner phone from her bag. It matches Eve’s. She dials.

“Hello? Oksana?” Eve picks up on the second ring. There’s no background noise.

“Do you miss me?” Oksana asks as she reclines on the couch.

“Where are you?” Eve shuffles around, her voice sounds worked up. Oksana’s heart speeds up.

“I am in my house, Eve. Enjoying some time to myself. Did you leave the house today?” A pause.

“Oh. N-no. I didn’t leave. I was busy.”

“Busy waiting for my call?” Another pause. Truthfully, Eve had been on her laptop in bed all day, the burner phone mere inches away from her. She checked it every few minutes. She _had_ spent the day waiting for the assassin to call or text.

“No.” Eve replies softly. Oksana unbuttons her jeans, slipping a hand into her underwear, her fingers gliding through wetness and hums.

“I was busy studying Jonathon Camden’s death. And Helen Parsons.” Oksana’s fingers stop, she drags her hand out and rolls her eyes.

“How boring for you. What did you eat today?”

“Coffee. They’re connected. Did you know that?”

“So you haven’t eaten?” Oksana’s brows furrow in concern.

“I’m fine. Oksana, did you know your targets are connected? How do you know who to kill? What are you told about them?”

“Nourishing yourself is important, Eve. The art of eating is also one of life’s greatest pleasures.”

“Oksana –”

“Right after sex that is. I imagined making you come many, many times.” Oksana’s fingers start to wander towards her unbuttoned jeans again.

Silence. Then “I… also imagined you making me come… many… many times.” Eve whispers. Oksana’s eyes widen and she grips the phone tighter.

“Really? You didn’t imagine stabbing me many, many more times?” Oksana hides her surprise with sarcasm.

“Did you imagine stabbing me back?” Eve counters. Oksana falls silent, a ball of anger warming within. She hears Eve sigh then say “I replayed that moment in my mind for months on end. I also imagined what it would’ve been like if I hadn’t stabbed you. I keep asking myself over and over why I hurt you.”

Oksana stays silent, defiant with her little ball of anger. She listens to Eve rustle and breathe and sigh, suddenly uncomfortable with her confessions.

“You did it because you wanted to. Simple.” Oksana finally engages.

“I- I- yes.”

“You liked it.”

“…Yes.” Another uncomfortable admission. “But I changed my mind instantly and didn’t want you to die!” Eve adds quickly. Oksana laughs, dragging her laptop from the dining table to her lap.

“Text me your email address now. I will send you something.”

“What?”

“Just do it, Eve.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Eve’s voice sounds further away from the phone and then Villanelle’s phone vibrates with the incoming message: _eve_polastri@gmail.com_

“What was your very first email address?” Oksana asks, typing Eve’s contact details into her laptop.

“I don’t remember.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

Oksana sighs. “Check your email. I will see you at the end of the week.” Oksana hears the clacking of keys in response.

“Business class to Barcelona? Is that where you live? Why? Are you going to kill me?”

“Stop asking me that. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Then answer my question. Thank you. It doesn’t mean I’m coming.”

“No.” Oksana doesn’t hide the boredom.

“No, you’re not going to kill me, or no you won’t answer my question.” Eve doesn’t hide the frustration.

“See you in a few days.” Oksana hangs up.

Eve stares at the phone and then at the electronic ticket on her screen. She has never flown business class before. _‘What the fuck, I’m not going. What the fuck.’_ She tosses the phone on to the bed and brushes off the laptop, stomps down the stairs and rips open the lid of a bottle of wine. She drinks straight from the bottle.

A photo of Helen Parsons’ corpse stares back at her on the wall, right next to Camden’s. Parsons murder was neat, in a blind spot in a completely secluded area in the dead of night. It was done in a contained space, a car, which no one would be approaching. It was well thought out and even more well-executed. Camden’s was high risk in comparison; at a party with dozens of people and cameras. However, it was done in a secluded room during a peak buzz of the party where guests were still concentrated on mingling. It was done with a gun. No other victims, no witnesses. Quick. Tidy. Neat. Well thought out. Well executed. _That_ was Villanelle’s style. Eve’s digging had been fruitful. She had found a digital trail revealing that Camden had significantly funded the socialite’s new app. It seemed that in return Parsons had provided Camden with a few political contacts from the UK and Washington DC. Further social media posts showed both Camden and Parsons attending fashion events with famous Spanish fashion influencers and designers clad in very little material. There had been a whole crew of particularly beautiful men and women with dark hair, tanned skin and surprisingly light eyes. None as captivating as a certain toned, tight-bodied, creamy Russian with big, stormy, almond-shaped eyes and long, strong fingers that seemed to fill Eve up and draw out waves of pleasure.   _‘Fuck, she feels so- wait, Spanish influencers… Fuck. Of course I’m going to Barcelona. Wait. Digital…trail…?’_  Eve sighs and chugs a huge amount of wine. She picks up her regular phone and dials an old friend.

“Hello?”

“Kenny! I need your help. If I gave you a copy of an email that contained, say, a plane ticket, would you be able to track the location of the computer that was used to purchase the ticket?”

“Well my investigative software would need a set of rules defined to determine what IP address is to be tracked. I would need a decryption key and to locate the access point of the host server from the ticket, that would then mean I need to either phish or somehow break into TCP connections to –”

“Kenny!”

“The short answer is yes, I could, but it would take time.”

“Can you do it before the end of the week?”

“Oh. So it’s not a hypothetical then. What are you on about?” Kenny’s tone is direct. ‘ _Annoyed?’_

“I can’t tell you. I’m just… I’m trying to get out of this spiral. Please, will you do this as a favour for me?” Eve tries a mix of desperation and gentleness. She hears a deep, heavy sigh.

“Fine. No promise on my end though, it takes time. Forward it to me. I know you’ve been in a bad place… whatever this is, promise me you’ll be alright and that you’ll pull yourself out of your dark place.”

Eve can’t stop the wide smile on her face “Thanks Kenny. Promise. Sending now.” She hangs up, forwards the email, then sets the kettle on to boil and takes down a sachet of powdered tomato soup from the kitchen shelf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for leaving comments and kudos. I really appreciate them.
> 
> I think that a burner phone which is a really really old non-smart phone model is really the only way for them to communicate other than posting letters or physically meeting so that Villanelle doesn't get tracked. But letters seemed too wordy and jarring to put into the story. 
> 
> I also initially had the first Barcelona target written out as being murdered by industrial meat grinder, but I think it is far too messy and uncontrolled for Villanelle. 
> 
> Feedback welcome.
> 
>  
> 
> Mati


	6. Vermouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you have nothing and nobody, risks don't seem that bad. Eve goes to Barcelona.

Of course Andrés has booked the seat right next to Villanelle on the plane. She pouts and sticks her tongue out at him as he sits down heavily. He winks at her.

“Excuse me?” Villanelle flags down an air hostess. “My husband and I would like some champagne.” She says sweetly and gestures towards Andrés’ deadpan face.

“Certainly. Ma’am, you both make a stunning couple!” the hostess disappears to prepare the welcoming drink. Villanelle smiles at Andrés and mouths ‘stunning’ and winks at him.

“Villanelle, stop playing games. It’s a wonder how Konstantin ever put up with you.”

At the mention of her late handler’s name, her eyes darken. “Well he was never as handsome as you, honey.” She says with a sickly sweet tone in her voice. “He couldn’t keep up with me in his old age. But you keep me satisfied every time.” She comments loudly, the hostess blushing lightly as she serves the champagne.

Andrés chuckles. “You remind me of… someone. Ah. I am tired, _honey_. I will sleep.” He has a distant look in his eyes and Villanelle is instantly curious as she watches him down the whole flute of champagne, put on the eye mask and settle into sleep. Villanelle takes a moment to observe the finer details of the man. His mouth is set in a down-turned line, his hair seems greyer and she’s particularly wary of his recent openness and potentially unauthorized travel plans. Villanelle trails her eyes down to his fingertips, his short nails chipped and torn in odd places, skin flapping out around his cuticles. _‘Nail biting. Why are you so worried Papi?’_. Her eyes trail towards his belt line, spying the sizeable bulge between his thighs. She stares, sips her champagne and stares some more. The rest of the flight is uneventful; Andrés sleeps while she watches movies and eats a full three course meal.

They hire a car when they land, a gunmetal grey Mercedes with hand stitched black leather interior. Villanelle liked that Andrés seemed to enjoy finer things in life too, she supposes it’s what made him tolerable to her in the first place. Andrés doesn’t use the GPS. He winds his way into town with familiarity, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel to the beat of the radio. They pull up at the Hotel El Palace. He unlocks the passenger door and pops open the trunk for the bell boy to retrieve their bags.

“I will see you a little later.” He makes no move to get out or turn off the car.

“You know this city well.” Villanelle observes.

“Quite well. Go, settle in. I highly recommend the bar at the end of the next block.” He drives off.

The Superior Suite is gaudy. Villanelle’s boots sink into the plush carpet beneath her, the smell of mahogany and slightly dusty satin armchairs fills the room and she hates the gold patterned wall paper.  But the bed is nice. It is just the right firmness, wide and the sheet thread count is high enough. She draws back the curtains and marvels at the lights and crowd at the intersection below. Barcelona has great nightlife. Ignoring Andrés’ recommendation, she takes a twenty-minute stroll to a more secluded, older bar that Konstantin had taken her to years ago. _Tandem Cocktail Bar_. God, the lighting was the same, the worn red velveteen cushions on tall bar stools were the same, the clientele the same middle-aged couples. Villanelle smiles. If you had never been here with someone ‘in the know’, you would never have known to skip the lengthy, confusing cocktail menu and stick to your classics or that there is in fact a small kitchen downstairs that prepares some of the most amazing tapas. You just have to know what to ask for. She takes a seat right at the bar.

“Vermouth, por favor, and boquerones en vinagre, jamon iberico. Gracias.” No menu needed.

The barkeep nods wordlessly. Barely minutes later, Villanelle’s mouth waters at the sight in front of her; a short glass of caramel coloured vermouth surrounding an island of ice and a curl of orange zest, silvery fillets of anchovies swimming in bright green olive oil and gold drops of vinegar and a small plate of deep red thinly shaved oily ham streaked with stripes of pale fat. This would be one of her death row meals. She tucks in heartily, relishing the medicinal sweet bitterness of the vermouth against the salt and sour pucker of the dishes. It is one of her favourite drinks; the perfect balance of sweet and bitter. It refreshes the palate and soothes the body. It is a drink that reminded her of Konstantin. Her pocket vibrates. She retrieves her burner phone and smiles at the incoming call from Eve.

“Hello. What would be your death row meal?” Oksana asks upon answering.

“Hi. Uh. Um. A home cooked meal by my mother I guess.” Eve stumbles over her words.

Oksana licks her teeth. “Is she a good cook? What would she cook for you?”

Eve laughs. “She’s a fantastic cook. Better than Niko. She probably wouldn’t cook for me if I was on death row. She’d be too busy yelling at me and pleading with the government to pardon me. Why do you ask?”

Oksana laughs with her. “I am talking more. You said I wasn’t talking. So tell me what she would cook, if she had to.”

Eve breathes. “You sound… relaxed. Lighter. She would cook my favourite birthday treats I had growing up. Seafood pancake. Tteokbokki – uh- they’re spice rice cakes. Gimbap… like sushi rolls… and maybe bulgogi. But there would be all sorts of side dishes too.” The conversation is light hearted and Oksana feels an alien warmth spreading in her chest. It’s an extra potent version of the feeling she had when she had long conversations with Anna. _Normal._

“Oh banchan those little side dishes. You’re Korean, of course.”

“Yeah. How do you know about banchan?”

“I had Korean barbecue in Los Angeles once. After a job. There were free refills of banchan. I ate a lot.” Oksana dips her finger in the oil and vinegar leftover from the anchovies and sucks it off.

Silence. Then paper rifling. Oksana knows Eve’s going through the stacks of information in her living room for the target’s name, desperately spurred on by the little nugget of information. It amuses her.

“Let’s make a bet. If the name you say is wrong, I get to do anything I want to you.” All noise stops.

“And if it’s right?” Eve questions softly.

“You get to do anything you want to me.” They are silent for an eternity. Then more paper rifling.

“Klei- no wait –” More shuffles. “Samantha Michaels. The nightclub queenpin!” Eve almost shouts.

Oksana’s face scrunches in surprise. “No.” Oksana doesn’t recognize the job, but something turns to ice in her chest.

There’s a disappointed moan on the other end of the phone. “It was Klein Vanderhoust! Damn it. What are you going to do to me? Oh shit, are you going to kill me?”

Oksana’s face flat lines. Ugh. “Well, Eve, the bet was that I get to do _anything_. How do you want to go? Stabbing?” Her voice is slightly sinister. She hears an audible gulp. “I will see you on Friday, Eve.” Oksana hangs up.

Eve tapes the photo of Samantha Michaels to the section of her living room wall marked “Not Villanelle” and Klein Vanderhoust in the section “Pretty sure it was Villanelle”. She had set out a photographic timeline in both sections and it was chilling. For the last couple of months when Villanelle had reactivated, there had been other targets taken out only within a few days of Villanelle’s kills. When Helen Parsons was murdered, there had been a very short news article online the next day about the death of a London research laboratory owner with rather entrepreneurial tendencies to donate money to blue chip technology, including a company that assisted with Parsons’ app. When Camden had been executed, only a few media sites had picked up on the following day’s execution of an operations manager of a huge freight company in the UK. He had been found dead in his car, crashed off a lonely highway. The thing is, he appeared to have asphyxiated by his seatbelt “getting caught around his neck” and also suffered a crushed spine from the vehicle’s impact.  Now that Samantha was on the wall, Eve was able to draw a parallel to the timing of Carla Demain, the primary donor at the political fundraiser in Paris who died from an induced asthma attack.  Samantha was killed only a week before Carla, drowned in her private hot tub with a huge amount of heroin in her system, no witnesses and no evidence left behind. It was definitely reminiscent of Villanelle’s style. So who was behind all these shadowed kills? Eve’s instincts were correct. Every time one of these unknown assassinations occurred, it was preceded or followed by a far riskier, higher profile kill by Villanelle. The Russian’s targets were like cover-ups, diversions of the world’s attention. There was a bigger picture, an elusive thread that connected all these recent kills together and it was mounting to something catastrophic. Eve needed to get to the bottom of this. Eve needed Oksana. For now, Eve had fooled herself into thinking that was the only reason she would follow the assassin.

 

The next morning, Villanelle opens her suite door to let Andrés in. He wheels a small carry-on suitcase behind him.

“Hi honey, did you enjoy your evening?” Villanelle asks.

“Very much. You have until Friday afternoon to complete the job. Here. Choose.” He hoists the bag onto the bed, roughly pulling the zips undone and revealing an assortment of handguns and knives. “There is also ricin and VX.”

Villanelle’s eyes widen at the mention of VX. “The nerve agent! I am yet to play with that one. It was the one used to kill Kim Jong Nam, yes?”

“Yes. It is like the plague. It burns and cramps the target, like their skin crawls with a thousand fire ants. Their muscles constrict like being constantly electrocuted. Within seconds they are wishing for death.” Andrés describes as he watches Villanelle’s face break into a tantalised smile, her eyes shimmering with delight. He picks up the small black pouch containing the nerve agent and hands it to her. She takes it and strokes the faux velvet.

“I also want this.” She pulls a short dagger from the suitcase, the blade swoops in an elegant curve like a small scimitar, it is polished with an impeccable shine and comes down into a decorative plate over smooth, dark wood. It is quietly exquisite, yet simple. It sings to Villanelle.

“Very you. The blade is a miniature version of the Persian shamshir shekargar; a hunter’s sword.” Andrés is already zipping the case shut and his feet itching to leave the room when Villanelle peers at him, surprised at the knowledge drop. Before she can comment, he abruptly makes for the door. “I need to go. Good luck. I will leave you to do your job.”

“Bye honey.” Villanelle calls as the door closes.

 

Roderigo Casilla enjoys deep sea fishing, supercars and American candy. At least, that’s what Villanelle can tell from the giant wall of framed photos with Casilla and his sausage fingers around enormous, shiny, asphyxiating fish, Casilla and obnoxiously bright supercars, and the half a dozen bowls of rainbow Skittles and M&M’s around his house. She pops a few candies in her mouth and chews noisily. Her pocket vibrates. ‘ _Eve’_. She smiles.

“Hello Eve.”

“Hello Oksana.”

“Are you playing hard to get?” Villanelle walks around the classic Catalan mansion, admiring the colour palette of sandy oranges, creams, peach tones and turquoise accents in the open spaces and cool marble. “You have not called me in a few days.”

“You didn’t call me either.” Eve doesn’t miss a beat.

“Were you waiting for me to call?” Oksana is quicker.

“…Yes. But only because I called you first. I want to ask you about Camden.”

“Let’s play a game then. Answer one of my questions first and I will answer yours.” Villanelle ascends the staircase, finding the master bedroom easily. There is a small office space at the end of the room, cluttered with folders, stationery and a little black case that looks very similar to the one Camden was so eager to protect. “What do you like about me?”

Eve is silent for a while. Villanelle takes the chance to rummage through a few things before popping open the little briefcase and reading through the note sitting on top of a glass vial.

“I don’t know what to say. There are many things.” Eve admits.

“I have to go Eve. You can tell me these many things tonight when you see me. Go to the Mandarin Oriental when you land. Bye.”

“No – wait –”. The dial tone cuts Eve off. Eve had wanted to ask who her target was. She had grappled with the probable truth that murder was the reason Oksana was in Barcelona. Unexpectedly, this reason almost seemed as normal as saying the sky was blue to Eve and it scared Eve that she wasn’t repulsed. In fact, Eve felt spurred by the idea that Villanelle was about to make another kill. It was the next move in this shadowy game of assassination and conspiracy. It intrigued and lured Eve.    

Villanelle re-reads the note in her hand.

_This sample is for your pleasure. The vial contains enough for 4 doses. You must only take one at a time otherwise it is lethal. Shabbat shalom. – Raz_

Villanelle recalls the stocky chemist she met in Camden’s office. She should have killed Raz when she took Camden out. The Asian man too. Villanelle pulls out the syringe and vial of Sabbath, shaking the clear liquid and holding it up to the light. Nothing. The only thing peculiar was the fact that Villanelle now knows that her targets are related and clearly something is afoot with this _Sabbath_ chemical. The door clicks open downstairs. _‘Shit_ ’. She wasn’t paying attention, the call from Eve had distracted her. She looks for a place to hide but can hear footsteps coming up the stairs. There is no time. _‘The best place to hide can be in plain sight’_ Konstantin’s voice runs through her head. She loads the whole vial of Sabbath into the needle, swivels the study chair around and sits confidently facing the doorway, legs wide and fancy blade in one hand and primed syringe in the other.

She laughs when Roderigo enters, his stubby fingers already unbuttoning his collar when he yelps in surprise at finding the assassin. He’s like a cartoon character and his hair is so dark it looks like a wig.

“Quien eres tu? Who are you?” The question once in Spanish, once in English. _‘How considerate_ ’.

“Do you know what happens on the Sabbath?” She waves the blade around casually, her head cocking to the side.  

The man just gapes at her like a stunned fish but his eyes widen in response to the trigger word. He’s looking around the room for a weapon, his feet already backtracking out of the bedroom.

“Take one more step and I will make sure this knife finds your heart.” Villanelle stands, her neck craning, chest out. The magma rolls and spits within her. There is a rush of hot blood through her veins and she needs this. She wants this release.

“Did Camden send you? Parsons? Please! What do you want? Take my money.” The man pleads, his body trembling.

“What happens on the Sabbath?” She repeats, her face bored. The sun is beginning to set and it casts a soft glow into the room, the peach in the marbled floor blooming in reflection. In reality, the Sabbath would begin once the sun sets completely.

“All work stops from sundown.” Roderigo cowers.

“Mhmm. The sun is setting. I need to finish my job.” She smiles. He tries to step backwards, his body already turning to make a run for it, but in two long strides Villanelle is upon him, his collar clutched in her hand and a needle plunged into his neck. She depresses the syringe and watches the clear liquid empty into his vein. He gasps and struggles, clawing at the needle. Villanelle smiles, teeth baring and eyes thrilled. She had considered going with the VX syringe in her other pocket, but it was exciting to find out what this infamous Sabbath would do. After a few seconds more of clawing, Villanelle is beginning to regret her decision. Not much seemed to be happening other than sheer panic on the man’s fat face. She yanks out the needle, drops it and rearms herself with the knife. At least she could still gut him like a pig. The magma has almost reached peak; she snarls at his purple face and makes a motion to begin disemboweling the man when suddenly he goes completely slack. It’s so sudden she practically drops him on the floor. His head rolls on his thick neck, his limbs folded awkwardly like he’s curled up to sleep. She bends down and can still see the panic dancing in his eyes. His body is so relaxed that saliva starts to leak from his mouth. Villanelle watches in awe as his muscles turn into saggy lumps. _‘Ah. Sabbath. The day of rest. Clever.’_  The light in his eyes is extinguishing fast; her lips curl in to a pleasured smile. He looks completely helpless. She watches a few more seconds, feeling the magma inside rumble and sizzle right at the edge of spilling. She checks his pulse. Gone. Suddenly, she recoils in disgust, dry retching and covering her mouth and nose with her sleeve. The bastard has shit and pissed himself. _‘Too fucking relaxed’_ she thinks. She hurries out of there, her heart pounding and adrenaline driving her crazy. She needs to kill someone. Fuck someone. _‘Eve_ ’.

Villanelle gets back to the El Palace and almost runs to the lift. Her body is thrumming and she needs some kind of release. The concierge runs after her and hands her a note as she gets into the lift. “Your husband left this for you.” She opens the note.

_Honey, my trip has started early. I will see you in two weeks._

She doesn’t even care. She’s in the hotel room, stripping her clothes off as soon as the door closes and running the shower. Once the water is warm she detaches the showerhead from the wall and aims it right between her legs. The pressure is just right. She orgasms twice, but the need for release hasn’t left her. Still panting, she gets out of the shower. Her burner rings.

“Hi? Oksana? I’ve landed.” Eve’s voice is a little timid, but it adds heat to the magma and Oksana visualizes slamming the woman against the wall, nipping at her neck, her nails digging into her thighs and Eve begging.

“Welcome to Barcelona. I’ll see you at the hotel. Ask for Lily Davis at concierge.” Oksana hangs up immediately. Any more of Eve’s voice and she might burst.  Oksana puts on a loose white button shirt and some tight leather pants, packs her bags messily and heads back downstairs to check out. She’s about to step out the hotel doors and into a car when she catches her fake husband walking out of the lobby bar with a striking, tall, thin woman with snowy skin and a fair blonde pixie cut. She was wearing some very expensive trousers, cuffed loosely above her combat boots, a bolero style murky green jacket and a tight white tank. The magma threatened to spill once more. Villanelle eyes the blonde, licking her lips. _‘Now she looks like fun. Perhaps I should find out who my husband is talking to.’_  Villanelle makes a start to approach them when they are joined by a very familiar Asian man with broad shoulders and neat hair, and a smaller, young woman with long dark hair and olive skin. She changes direction, pushing her way out the hotel doors in a bid to meld with the scenery. The group walks out an adjacent door, Andrés slowing his pace until he lags behind the group slightly. He turns directly to face Villanelle. She smiles innocently. His eyes turn to ice as he regards her, willing her to forget this encounter and move on. She glances at the group getting into his car ever so briefly, her heart freezing as she makes eye contact with the tall blonde in the front passenger seat. Villanelle’s face betrays nothing. She turns, and hops into a taxi.

 

Eve tries to smooth her hair down as she enters the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental. Kenny had called her when she landed, finally with a lead on the ticket.  

“The ticket was bought from a computer in Berlin.”

“Yes!” Eve had felt triumphant.

“One problem. I couldn't actually hack into the computer. When I thought I’d made it through a message popped up. It said ‘Sorry Baby x.’ and severed the attempt, sending Trojans back towards me.” Kenny had ranted about his concern for Eve’s safety. Eve had made a sad excuse to hang up. Of course Oksana would know.

Her face drops when she looks around her. She’s a rather pathetic contrast in her faded jeans, holey cardigan and ratty grey t-shirt against the grand light fixtures, the polished glass and steel and impeccably dressed guests. She sighs and drags her shabby suitcase to the concierge. Her heart begins to race; somewhere in this building Oksana is waiting for her like a lioness waiting for her prey. There’s something magnetic about this fact, something exhilarating about it that is equally matched by the compelling memory of Oksana’s warm touch burned into her skin. This particularly stupid decision of hers to come at the call of an assassin could end in two ways; immediate death or the most thrilling ride of a life time for a short period followed by inevitable death. Yes, Eve _wants_ to be here.

“I’m here as a guest of Lily Davis.” Eve tells the lady behind the desk, trying her hardest to hide her excitement.

“Ah yes, ma’am, she’s left a key for you. The Penthouse Suite. Take the private elevator to your right.” The lady slides a keycard across the table. Eve blinks. _‘The fucking penthouse?’_ She robotically walks to the elevator, there’s only two buttons; one for Penthouse and one for lobby. The metal carriage shakes lightly as it speeds up the inside of the towering building. When the doors open and a cool gust of wind blows across Eve, taking her breath with it as her eyes land on the goddess in front of her. _‘Fuck me dead.’_

“Hello Eve.”

“Jesus Christ, how much does this place cost?” Eve drags her bag noisily into the open living room and looks around with her mouth open.

“Eve.” Oksana commands her attention. Eve’s eyes focus on the woman approaching her. Within seconds soft, cool lips are on hers. Eve lets go of her luggage and her hands find Oksana’s hips. _‘Jesus she tastes good._ ’ Eve can’t control herself, she wants to feel Oksana pressed against her. The kisses become wilder, lips are hot and swelling and Oksana’s hands are in her hair. Eve’s desire rages to life, coursing through her like a typhoon. Her hands grab at Oksana’s ass, digging her nails into the firm flesh. Oksana growls in response and suddenly Eve finds her holey cardigan and ratty t-shirt being torn from her body roughly.

“More. I need more.” Oksana gasps out between kisses. Eve’s bra is unclasped and pulled off her roughly as she is led back against a wall. One of Eve’s leg’s wraps around Oksana’s hip and the blonde bucks into her, pressure hitting Eve in the right spot, her breasts pressed into the Oksana’s silky shirt. Eve moans. The sound is all Oksana needs to pick the small woman up by her thighs and carry her to the bedroom. She lands on her back, her hair splayed and Oksana’s weight between her legs and heated mouth on her breasts. She feels the kisses trail down, across her ribs, over her belly button, along her hip bones and suddenly her jeans are off. Eve looks down and feels her soul engulfed in flames as her eyes meet dark grey ones looking back up with her with pure want. The lioness has her prey. All breath and thought and words escape Eve as hot, wet, powerful strokes start between her legs. Oksana’s tongue is the most pleasurable thing Eve has felt in this world. “Fuck. Oh Fuck.”

Oksana stares at Eve’s face, her eyes clenched shut and her mouth in a small ‘O’. Eve’s small breasts rise and fall with each moan and pant and grunt and her nipples stand like two flags atop mountains. Oksana circles her tongue, then adds long strokes alternating between using the powerful tip and soft flat of her tongue. Eve moans louder, her chest heaves and Oksana can tell she’s close. Eve tastes like salted caramel and pears. Oksana _loves_ it. Her tongue works rhythmically against the hardened clit, her fingers find Eve’s entrance and slide in easily. She curls her fingers upwards, stroking them in and out a few times and sucks hard on Eve’s clitoris. Eve gasps and moans loudly as her body shudders against Oksana. Oksana’s tongue softly winds her down. She kisses Eve’s thighs and finds herself being pulled up towards Eve’s lips. Eve kisses her hungrily, licking and sucking at her own scent and wetness left on Oksana’s mouth. Eve lifts Oksana’s shirt and throws it across the room, she pulls down hard on Oksana’s pants and it takes a few seconds to pull off the tight material. Oksana chuckles against Eve’s mouth and gasps loudly when she feels fingertips find her clit. They work fast, rubbing with deepening pressure against her.

“Yes. Like that. Fuck.” Oksana is not normally vocal but she can’t help the short moans being drawn out of her. She moves Eve’s hand to Eve’s thigh and straddles it. She rides steadily against her hand, Eve’s thigh giving the perfect height and support. Her head is thrown back and the lava is coursing through her now. Eve watches her, completely mesmerized. Oksana tangles her hands in Eve’s hair and pulls her head towards her breasts. Eve gets the message and sucks on a ruby nipple.

“Yes. Yes. In. Inside. Eve.” Two of Eve’s fingers extend and as Oksana bucks forward, they enter her. Oksana’s core is tight and wet and hot and the wetness makes slick sounds against Eve’s hand. It sends lust straight through Eve and she pulls Oksana’s face down to kiss. Oksana bucks faster, her hips curling and jerking impatiently against Eve’s hand. Eve adds a third finger and suddenly muscles begin to clench around them. The lava surges forth, scorching every inch of skin. Oksana’s eyes a screwed shut, her mouth panting and moaning into Eve’s ear as Oksana holds Eve’s head tightly against her. A few seconds later, Oksana is impossibly tight around Eve’s fingers. Movement stops and Oksana moans long and soft as her body trembles and jerks. Eve slowly pulls her fingers out, kissing Oksana’s chest and shoulders and jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments!  
> I'm so pleased people are enjoying this story. I am starting to think about Villanelle/Oksana and Eve daily... it is a little weird. I cannot wait until season 2. 
> 
> Mati x


	7. Orbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Food and sex are two of life's greatest pleasures. Another is pleasuring Eve, in every manner. Villanelle is surely a hedonist.

“Are you going to kill me?” Eve finds herself curled into the muscular body beneath her. She rests her head on Oksana’s chest as she traces lazy circles on Oksana’s warm skin, across her clavicle, around her nipple, down to her navel and right back up again.

Oksana lets out a long breath. “Don’t ruin this.” Her fingers are tangled in Eves hair, occasionally dragging her nails across Eve’s scalp soothingly.

Eve rumbles with a little laugh. “If it’s worth anything, I’d probably just lay here and let you kill me. I’m pretty sure your tongue is the closest thing to heaven I’ve felt.” Eve immediately feels a rosy flush in her cheeks. She’s not quite one to be shy in bed, but something warming and truthful about her statement makes her feel a little silly. She can’t help but smile as her head bounces a little when Oksana laughs in response.

“You seem to constantly give me every reason to kill you. You stab me, you talk too much, you constantly ask if I’m going to kill you, you’re annoying, you try to get around my trust by asking the nerd to hack my computer. Tell me, Eve, is there a reason I shouldn’t kill you?” Oksana rattles off the facts.

_‘Urgh. So she knew about Kenny after all. She basically just laid this trap and I walked right into it.’_ It ruffles Eve a little.

“I guess… there really isn’t a reason you shouldn’t. Other than the fact that it would prove you are a murderous psychopath.” Defensiveness gets the better of Eve and she cringes as the harsh words fly out of her mouth before she can filter them. Oksana’s eyes flash. Lava threatens to spill.

“I can’t help what I am, Eve.” Oksana manages through gritted teeth. She sits up and leans against the headboard, angry enough to ignore the immediate longing for the weight of Eve’s head on her chest.

“Yes, you can.” Eve leans on an elbow and her eyes search Oksana’s.

“No, I can’t. I am what I am, I do what I do. You call me a psychopath. Maybe it’s true. Who am I to go against nature? Maybe it is necessary for the order of things. So stupid people die.” Oksana’s eyes narrow on the last few words, her upper lip twitching as she points at Eve.

“In Moscow, Carolyn Martens once told me that there are some people who are simply going to do the thing they want to do because they know that in the long run it is better for everyone that it happens that way. I think that’s bullshit. People have choices.” Eve talks as she watches Oksana roll off the bed onto her feet, in all her naked glory.

“Carolyn Martens is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Oksana rolls her eyes. Eve scoffs. “And you, Eve, are a woman in shit clothing.” The naked blonde picks up the torn t-shirt to inspect.

“I’m sorry I’m not earning what a gun for hire earns! You know, you can be such a di-”

“Yes.” Villanelle cuts her off. “I am earning much, much more than you. Yes, I am a gun for hire. That is exactly the point. I can _choose_ to be that and I do, Eve. There is a difference between choosing what I do and being who I am. I _choose_ to be good at my job because it affords me everything I desire, and it affords me the ability to be exactly who I am. Don’t pretend you don’t understand that.” This is probably the first time Eve has ever heard Oksana be so serious. It feels like a portal has just been ripped open in her mind and she’s too scared to step through. She’s right, of course, Eve has always understood that at the very foundation of Oksana she is different, she is like oil in water; inconsumable by society and simply suspended like someone _in-between_. She learns the traits, the correct response, and she digs deep within herself to draw out as much normalcy as she can, but she is different. Oksana’s job with The Twelve is the most naturally fitting role, almost as if it were Oksana’s born purpose.

“I want it.” The words are out of Eve’s mouth before she can stop herself. Oksana’s eyes widen. ‘ _Me.’_

Quickly, Eve adds words trying to explain away any subtext. “I mean I want that freedom. I want to be exactly who I am. Your story awakens something in me.” Her hands gesticulate and Oksana can’t help the smug smile. “Don’t even go there, Oksana.”

Oksana says nothing, her smile still plastered to her face. Suddenly she makes a grand show of ripping the t-shirt completely in half and throwing it at Eve’s surprised face.

“Come. You also have a choice. Choose something nice to wear. I am hungry.” She turns and walks into the next room, sashaying her naked hips teasingly. Eve follows after a second and her jaw drops when she sees that the _room_ they have entered is actually a massive walk-in wardrobe. Garments hang in thick, frosty plastic sleeves, jewellery is laid out on round felt tables and a corridor of mirrors stands proudly in the centre of the wardrobe.

“I had concierge bring some outfits up.”

Eve unzips a couple of the sleeves, reaching her hand in to feel the fabric when suddenly Oksana’s body presses up behind her, warm hands running up her sides and swollen lips pressed against the back of her neck.

“Maybe we should stay here. Your body is amazing.” More kissing.

Eve’s eyes flutter shut. “May- Maybe.” She moans. Oksana’s stomach impolitely growls in reply.

“But I am hungry and I want to take you to a place.” All body warmth disappears and Oksana is pulling hangers off the rack. Eve needs a second to recover.

“I don’t know what to choose.”

“Let me choose for you?” Oksana offers the overwhelmed woman a way out. “Please do.” Eve accepts. 

A little while later, Eve finds herself staring at her own ass perfectly accentuated in the lightest, silkiest red Tom Ford sleeveless dress and her calves long and elegant in the gorgeous nude heels she found. She’s done her own hair and makeup, and she feels incredible. There is a coolness that overflows through her as she takes herself in and she feels _sharp_.  She notices Oksana staring at her in the mirror. There’s a glint of want in the assassin’s eyes and it makes her shiver. Oksana straightens her jacket and Eve openly admires how ravishing she looks in her off white, sateen blouse and shark grey suit checkered with extremely fine navy and hay-yellow stitching. There’s a royal red pocket square peeking over her breast pocket like a sneaky little teaser matching their outfits like a couple. _‘Suave fucker’_ Eve thinks, clenching her thighs against the pulse between her legs.

They walk down the street, nightlife buzzing around them. The air is warm and the silence between them is relaxed. Oksana smells incredible and the mood is absolutely perfect. Naturally, Eve has to ruin it.

“You have a shadow.”

“Yes, Eve, because when I block lights my body casts a shadow.” Oksana gestures at the shadow of herself on the pavement.

“No. I mean your kills are shadowed. They are preceded or followed very closely by another kill.” Eve watches Oksana’s face empty of any emotion. No response.

“And your recent kills are connected. I don’t know how, but I just know it. There’s something about cars and maybe something more sinister, but right now all I have to go on is my research and what you can-”

“We’re here.” Oksana stops outside a dark, lively bar. Eve can smell olive oil and sweet wine in the air. Her mouth waters as she follows Oksana in, forgetting her rambling. The other patrons barely acknowledge them, far too engrossed in the stacks of plates in front of them and the chorus of conversations. Oksana orders something in Spanish at the bar, accepts a wine bottle and two glasses and leads Eve to two tall stools by the open window. The old wooden bi-fold shutters and the weathered timber table top in front of them frames the scene perfectly. Eve can’t help but feel almost carefree. There is no fear, there is no exhilaration, no rage, no desperation. She is just there, in a beautiful cobbled street on a balmy night with Oksana. _Happy_. She hasn’t felt like this for years.

Eve’s thoughts are interrupted as Oksana pushes a glass of murky wine in front of her. “What is this?” Eve holds the glass up, frowning at a few tiny solid bits settling at the bottom of her cloudy orange wine.

“Natural wine. Try it.” Oksana encourages her, taking a lengthy drink herself. Eve sips cautiously, suddenly enlivened with a tangy but sweet flavour, the perfume of orange blossoms and rose filling her senses. “It’s excellent” Eve remarks.

“So you never told me. What are the many things you like about me?” Oksana wiggles her eyebrows.

Eve laughs, genuinely. Oksana’s heart soars. “Well, your taste in wine for one.”

“What else?”

“I find you funny, sometimes.”

Oksana smiles wider. “What else?”

Eve clears her throat and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Your eyes. I can never decide if they’re green or grey.”

Oksana leans closer in to Eve. “What else?”

Eve takes a large gulp of wine. “The way my body reacts to you and how good you make me feel.” Another gulp.

Oksana leans in, her eyes flicking towards Eve’s lips. _‘There’s the tell again._ ’ Their lips meet, sticky from the wine and so incredibly sweet.

They are interrupted by a waiter setting a dish in front of them, a thick octopus tentacle made less menacing by being sliced into bite size pieces. Crispy, charred grill marks and a burgundy coating from being poached in wine surround a vibrant white, juicy centre. Eve’s mouth waters. The octopus sits on top of a vibrant orange blended chilli sauce, bitter and fresh green watercress garnishing the top. Eve ignores the look Oksana is giving her as she whips out her phone and takes photos of the dish from varying angles.

“You like seafood?” Oksana digs in, not caring whether Eve is finished taking her Instagram shots.

“Yeah, I do.” Eve finally takes a bite and it is divine. The octopus is so tender and the chilli sauce is bright, tomatoey, sweet and spicy.

They sit and eat, comfortable in the silence of each other’s company. As Eve takes the last piece, polishing off the sauce with it, she asks “what do you like about me?”

“Your hair.”

Eve laughs. “Anything else?”

Oksana considers her for a moment, sipping her wine. “You lose yourself in something when it matters to you.” Oksana pauses. Eve stops breathing. “It is what I like and what I find incredibly stupid.” Oksana shrugs.

“What does that even mean?” Eve looks at her incredulously. Another dish arrives; an oval plate with a fluffy, off white mixture sitting in a shallow pool of olive oil and graced with cracked black pepper over the top. A small basket of hot, toasted rustic slices of bread, a deep red tomato cut in half, a garlic clove and a wedge of butter accompanies it. Eve whips out her phone and starts snapping again.

“It means” Oksana waits patiently for the photoshoot to end, “that you fall down rabbit holes. Your brain is as amazing as your body, but you’re not careful enough to know when to stop.”

Eve puts the phone away, a blush resurfacing on her cheeks. “Fair assessment. What is this and how do I eat it?” She points at the plate.

Oksana laughs and picks up a piece of bread and the garlic clove and gestures at the white mixture in front of them. “This is bacalao; salted cod that they rehydrate with spices and whip into a smooth paste. Here, watch.” Eve watches, fascinated as Oksana swipes the raw garlic clove on the hot bread. The savoury aroma immediately dispersing into the air. Eve’s mouth waters. Next, Oksana takes half the tomato and rubs it assertively against the bread leaving rouge streaks of flavour and setting off the sweetest aroma. Then she lightly spreads some butter and sprinkles salt over it. She hands the tomato bread to Eve and repeats the actions quickly for her own piece. “Dip it in.” They both dip the bread into the white fish mixture, scooping a generous amount of it along with the emerald olive oil.

Eve takes a bite. Her eyes close. It is heaven. The aroma of the fresh bread, the garlic, the tomato, the cod, the olive oil, it just makes perfect sense. She swallows and quickly takes another bite, not wanting the experience to end. She opens her eyes to find green, _‘no, grey?’_ eyes staring intensely at her.

“Good?” Oksana asks.

“I’ve never had anything like it. It’s delicious.” Eve replies. _‘I’ve never had anything like you.’_

The next few tapas arrive throughout their casual conversation; cured meats, grilled prawns, crispy potatoes and pickled peppers. They talk mostly about Eve, her uneventful life in Connecticut, her father’s lost battle with cancer, how she had met Niko playing darts at a shabby pub on an unremarkable London street. Eve tries her best to ask more about the targets. Eventually by the fifth or sixth question, Oksana plainly ignores them. It doesn’t bother Eve as much as it should. Tonight has been perfect, and Eve finds herself not wanting to ruin it. She wants to lock this night away into her memories like a tiny glimmer of hope and happiness she can cling to if this strange fairytale ends with her throat slashed and her blood spattered across the penthouse walls. Oksana is not shy when it comes to eye contact. The entire night, Oksana has been the perfect date. She locks eyes whenever she can, she leans in and makes light touches. Maybe it’s too much wine, but Eve looks at Oksana, now with her jacket off and her blouse unbuttoned very low and longs to run her palms over her breasts, to taste Oksana’s tongue, to feel strong hands hoisting her up by her thighs and powerful hips bucking into her. She licks her lips. Oksana’s eyes travel straight to Eve’s lips. Oksana’s mouth follows. They kiss heatedly, a heady wine-scented warmth surrounding them.

It’s well after midnight when they get back the Penthouse, all heat and want. “You know; I don’t think I could ever afford something like this.” Eve gestures around the room. “Or this” she runs her hands down the sleek dress she’s wearing. She kicks off her heels and walks towards the wardrobe. “Or any of these” she calls out to Oksana who dallies in after her. “I mean, look at this dress… how much is it?” Eve is frowning at herself in the full length mirror. Oksana wordlessly comes up behind her, kissing her shoulder, her neck. She gently undoes the zip and sucks firmly on the soft flesh just below Eve’s jaw line. Eve moans and leans back into the warmth.

“It doesn’t even matter. Look at yourself. You look stunning. Red is your colour.” Oksana watches Eve’s eyes open in the mirror and they’re full of lust. Oksana’s hands slowly slip the dress off Eve’s shoulders, sliding it slowly down her body. As Eve’s nipples are revealed, Oksana growls and bites down on Eve’s shoulder. Eve can’t help the half-gasp-half-moan that she releases. Oksana lets the dress fall to the ground and drags her fingernails up the sides of Eve’s thighs. Eve presses back into Oksana, her breathing shallow. “God, Oksana.” Oksana’s thumbs hook into the top of Eve’s underwear.

“Look at yourself.” Oksana commands. Eve’s eyes are trained on Oksana’s hands in her reflection. Slowly, painstakingly, Oksana slides Eve’s underwear off. Short, soft curls exposed to the cool air, Eve’s breathing more rapid, her hands falling on top of Oksana’s, pushing them softly downwards.

“You are beautiful.” Oksana whispers into Eve’s ear. Eve turns her head to kiss her, stepping out of her underwear as it joins the dress on the floor. Oksana’s hands run up Eve’s side, over her breasts and stop. They cup the soft flesh, thumbs rubbing against hardening nipples. Eve’s hips roll involuntarily, a low moan urging Oksana to continue. Oksana’s right hand trails downwards, combing through her soft curls and finally finding thick wetness between Eve’s legs.

“Watch.” Eve’s eyes struggle open, watching Oksana in the mirror palming her breast with her left hand and her right hand’s fingers making magic circles against her clit. Eve’s body rolls and her legs open slightly wider. She watches as Oksana eyes her body hungrily in the mirror. Eve can’t help the sounds coming out of herself, she bites her lower lip, transfixed on Oksana’s finger worship. The wet, slick sounds stirring a need inside her. Oksana uses her middle finger to stroke Eve’s clit, her forefinger and ring finger spreading soft wet lips for better access. “Oh, God, Oksana, fuck.” She’s grunting now, her hips bucking against Oksana’s long, strong finger. Eve’s eyes clench shut. Oksana’s hand stops completely.

“I said watch.”

“Oh, God, please.” Eve’s eyes pry open and watch as Oksana begins slow ministrations with her fingers again.

“I love it when you beg for God.” Oksana kisses her back and shoulder. Eve feels Oksana’s tongue against her neck, lips along her jaw, teeth nibbling at her ear. Eve sounds animalistic, wild, _free_. Her legs begin to tremble, her eyes close and her head rolls back onto Oksana’s shoulder. Oksana’s finger works faster, building, building, building and with a breathless moan, Eve’s legs clench, her body shuddering and collapsing against Oksana.

Oksana carries Eve to the bed, kissing her tenderly. She takes off her jacket, her blouse and trousers, every piece of clothing and climbs in next to Eve. Sleepy kisses turn more energetic, hands grasp at flesh and legs tangle, hips rolling into each other. Oksana needs release and Eve can feel her desperate energy pulsing. Eve straddles Oksana, fingers finding Oksana’s clit, flicking and teasing. Oksana moans and grinds her hip against the pressure, biting down softly on Eve’s bottom lip. Eve pulls away, watching Oksana’s face contort in pleasure below her, her brows drawn inwards and whimpers of pleasure rolling over her plump lips. Eve is completely taken. Her fingers start to move faster, slipping and sliding over wetness. Oksana curls her body in tighter towards Eve, hands grabbing Eve’s ass and thighs. Oksana grunts as Eve’s fingers slip inside her, her clit hitting Eve’s palm with every thrust. The magma boils, bubbling to the edge of her mind. Oksana grits her teeth and bucks hard against Eve, losing herself completely in the warmth around her, sweaty, sticky skin embracing her. She comes with a panting intensity. They both fall into the soft mattress, wordlessly drifting into sleep.

 

It’s mid-morning when Eve awakens. She hears movement in the kitchen and finds Oksana dressed in a silk robe tending to something on the stove.

“I hope that’s another omelette.”

“Good morning. It is not, but I think you will enjoy this. The shower’s through there. I’ll be done when you finish. Let’s eat outside.”  Oksana gestures toward the bathroom with her spatula.

Eve can’t help but smile. There’s something so comforting about the scene in front of her. The sea breeze coming through the open balcony doors brings her a lightness. It’s not until she sees a couple of knives, syringes and a pistol on the dining room table that her heart comes to a shuddering stop. Suddenly she has to get out of the room. Oksana is eyeing her curiously as she hurries into the bathroom. She runs the shower cold. Ice cold. Her body shivers and skin puckers. Her brain kicks into gear. Last night was one of the best nights of her life. There is a physicality to Oksana that calls to Eve and entices her. There is such depth and mystery to the assassin that she can’t help her curiosity. There is a sensuality and softness to Oksana that makes Eve feel like it’s perfectly alright to let her guard down. And then there’s a knife, a syringe and a loaded gun. Eve has seen the cold, quiet fierceness of Villanelle and it terrifies her to her bones. The pair of them do this tortured dance, knowing perfectly well of Eve’s betrayal but never allowing it to surface and dissipate. Eve doesn’t even know why Oksana asked her to come to Barcelona and has absolutely no idea how much Oksana trusts her and will let her investigate. Honestly, Eve thinks it’s highly possible she’s just hear for Oksana’s physical pleasure and will eventually find herself being choked to death mid-orgasm. Mind-blowing sex and Adonis gorgeousness aside, Oksana is merely the subject of Eve’s obsessive work. _‘I don’t have time for these fucking feelings right now. I don’t care if she’s probably the most perfect human being I’ve encountered. I need to stop The Twelve._ _Here we go, down the rabbit hole_.’  But work be damned, Eve can’t control the flutter of her heart when she can feel Oksana close, or the wetness between her legs when Oksana touches her.

Tying the knot of her robe, Eve finds Oksana sitting down with a cup of tea at the rooftop table. The morning sun is warming everything gently and she can see rolling waves along the beach in the distance. Barcelona is truly beautiful and with the fresh faced blonde in the picture, the view is spectacular. Eve’s heart pounds. There is a small cast iron pan filled with glistening, blistered red tomatoes sitting beside another pan with a round, cake-like food in it; the top golden-brown and looking deliciously crispy. Oksana serves her.

“I don’t really like quiche.” Eve says, pouring herself a cup of coffee. Oksana stares at her blankly.

“Blistered tomatoes and tortilla. It’s very thin potatoes baked into eggs. _Not_ a quiche.” Oksana tries gently, still put off by Eve’s complete lack of food knowledge.

“So a potato quiche?” Eve prods the slice in front of her.

Oksana tries to hide the disappointment in her voice. “You don’t have to eat it.”

They eat in silence. Of course the tortilla is the perfect balance of creamy, potatoey, crispy topped slice of heaven and the tomatoes are the juiciest, sweet, savoury pops of colour in her mouth, but Eve refuses to show Oksana how fucking delicious it really is. It’s a futile attempt because Oksana is smiling at her over her mug with a knowing glint in her eye and the smuggest smile on her face. _‘Dick._ ’ They stay silent through the eating, Eve constantly glancing between her plate and the eyes staring at her across the table.

“What’s on your mind, Eve?” Oksana waits patiently, betraying no shock when Eve drops her fork on her plate noisily and lets out a frustrated groan.

“When? When are you going to kill me? Stick a needle in my neck, stab me, shoot me in the head? When?”

Oksana just stares at her. The magma swirls around inside her because she _really_ is starting to hate that question. Oksana doesn’t know. Eve isn’t a target and revenge can be messy. Maybe she should kill the tormented woman; smash a still warm cast iron pan into her skull a few times, paint the tiles red with her brain matter and toss her over the roof. Instead, Oksana bites the inside of her cheek and continues her blank stare at Eve for a few more painful seconds. Eve’s face cracks, her eyes well with tears.

“Every time I’m face to face with you, I get sucked it into your gravity. I’m helpless. I’m drawn. I’m like a tiny planet and you’re the fucking sun. I’m stuck in orbit around you and I just wonder how long it’s going to be until I burst into flames and you end me.” Eve’s hands wave around, comb through her hair, point at the assassin, gesture wildly. They just can’t seem to stay still. Eve is out of breath.

“Do you wear bikinis to the beach, Eve? Or a one piece?” Oksana skips over the deep revelation from Eve. Truth is, it makes her uncomfortable that she feels the exact same. Oksana had felt the gravitational pull. Eve is one of two people who have ever treated Oksana with a consistent normalcy. Konstantin being the other. There is a darkness and a goodness in Eve that seemed to draw Oksana in. Eve’s quickness, complexity and reckless ignorance of mortality excited Oksana. Eve was stunningly attractive and yet didn’t carry herself that way because she didn’t know it. Oksana could not ignore the beauty and potential of all that grace to be discovered.  

“Neither. I don’t like the beach.” Eve plays along, staring at Oksana’s falsely empty face.

“What do you like?”

‘ _You._ ’ Eve thinks, but says “I prefer to be in the beach house. Watching the beach from a distance. Preferably with a gin and tonic in hand.”

Oksana smiles. “Your turn.”

“What?”

“You answer my questions, I’ll answer yours.” Oksana explains. Eve blinks, rage rushing like a torrential storm ripping through the clouds. _‘This fucking game_ ’.

“Can you fucking say something real? I have lost my goddamn mind and I just need to know if I’m just your plaything until you kill me.” This version of Eve is feral, unapologetic. Oksana observes the lines of Eve’s face, the creases in her forehead, the tightening of her jaw and the flare of nostrils. Oksana feels heat surge through her veins. She wants to feel Eve’s mouth on her, her skin, her tongue, her teeth.

“I fantasise about killing you in the bloodiest way possible.” Oksana’s face remains stony. Eve’s eyes pulse and widen, her jaw clenches tighter. Oksana knows the signs; a mix of fear and readiness. It’s the fight or flight mechanism. Oksana usually has fun trying to pick which response her target will take. She’s never been wrong.

She continues, “I think about making your blood pour out of you and watching the colour leave your body. I like it. I like thinking about killing you. But then I see you and I want to touch you. Then I touch you and I forget about killing you because then I wouldn’t feel your warmth or hear your voice and I like both of those things more than I like the thought of killing you.”

Eve is completely stunned. She had never expected such eloquence and clarity of Oksana’s thoughts so generously offered. Eve is completely frozen.

“My turn. Who’s a better lover, me or your ex-husband?”

Eve seems to have defrosted quickly. “Oh fuck off. What is this? Comparing dick size?”

“Do I look like I have a dick, Eve? If you don’t want to answer, that’s fine. But you can’t ask another question until you answer.” Oksana pops a tomato into her mouth.

“You.” Eve answers quickly and immediately adds her next question. “So you’re not going to kill me?”

Oksana beams with delight. “I love making you come, Eve. You taste wonderful. I don’t know when I’ll kill you. Hopefully not any time soon. You are not a target and revenge is not always sweet. I will give you a bonus tip, Eve. Do not worry yourself with this. If I am to kill you, I will let you know.” Oksana pulls Eve’s chair towards her strongly, their legs interlocking.

There is something about the danger she feels around Oksana that turns Eve on. She knows she is bright red and wishes Oksana’s tongue was working between her legs right now. “Uh. Thanks. For the compliment and the tip… I guess.” _‘Now if only I could feel the tip of your tongue. Fuck.’_

“You are welcome. Now my next question is… can I make you come right now?”

After hours in bed followed by an hour being pressed up against the shower wall, Oksana’s tongue probing and driving her insane, they’re finally dried off and back in the wardrobe choosing their evening outfits. The red dress and underwear still on the floor, incriminating. _‘Fuck that probably had to be one of the top three orgasms’._

Eve is rifling through the hanging garments when her hands land on a gun holster. Her mouth suddenly becomes dry. “Who’s the target?”

Oksana snorts. “Maybe you are my next target.” She holds her hands up like little claws and growls playfully. Eve can’t help but smile. Then it fades. “Wait. Why haven’t they asked you to kill me? I mean, maybe they don’t know I almost killed you, but surely The Twelve won’t tolerate me digging into anything.”

Oksana drops her claws, her face suddenly serious. “They know about the stabbing. They healed me.” Her hand absently finds the scar tissue. Eve sees Oksana shrink into herself, her eyes glazed. She approaches slowly, cupping her face reassuringly. Eve hadn’t thought about the emotional and mental damage that Oksana might have sustained. Oksana seemed only to make it a physical thing, but Eve now senses how deep the betrayal might run.

“Hey. Right now, in this moment, we’re okay. It’s just you and me. I’m glad you’re healed and I am here with you. What happened after?” Eve genuinely means it and she suppresses the rising need to freak out. _‘Fucking feelings_ ’.

Oksana’s eyes return with colour as she focuses on Eve’s face. “I made it into my ex’s apartment downstairs. I found a staple gun and closed up the wound. I passed out.” Oksana states matter-of-factly.

_‘Your ex?’_ Eve swallows. “What happened when you woke up?”

“I was in a rural hospital in Russia. I was there for a few months. They healed me, helped me rebuild some strength. Towards the end I was interrogated about you. I couldn’t give them any information.” Oksana slips on some deep olive green wide-leg linen pants and a white singlet top.

“Did they hurt you?” Eve pulls on a white deep v-neck t-shirt and grey Armani jeans, following the casual feels she observes from Oksana.

“What do you think interrogated means? It was not so bad. I have had worse. There’s a tiny restaurant a little walk away. You will love it.” She pulls on white Converse shoes. Eve had noticed faded scars on Oksana’s back and thighs and wondered about her war stories.

“Then you moved to Berlin?” Eve dares. Oksana raises an amused eye brow at her.

“It isn’t as lovely as Paris, but it’s my third favourite city. Tut tut, Eve. I told you not to tell anyone about me.”

“What’s your second favourite city? I technically didn’t tell Kenny it was you. Your smart ass message gave it away.”

Oksana laughs and kisses Eve softly. “Barcelona.” 

They walk side by side down the wide main street, their hands occasionally brushing against each other. The lightness they both feel is a welcome change from years spent in survival mode and hurt and loneliness.

“Why did you ask me to come to Barcelona?” Eve asks, her tone completely curious.

“I had to get you out of your house somehow. You were in a shithole, all smelly and dirty.” Oksana wrinkles her nose in disgust.

“Oh.”

Oksana sighs when Eve doesn’t share her humor. “I wanted to see you again. I wanted to touch you again. I wanted you close. You aren’t the only one with new feelings.”

Eve stops walking. “With what?” Her face is stunned.

“Why is your face like that? I am honest.” Oksana stops and turns to Eve.

“I… didn’t expect that.”

“Why wouldn’t you? I have always been truthful with you, Eve. _You_ , haven’t always been truthful with me.” Oksana keeps walking, a little irritation showing in her voice.

“I… guess you’re right. Sorry. I should be more honest.”  Eve hurries to catch up, mentally filing away the touchy subject. Trust was one thing Oksana valued above all else. It was hard to earn Oksana’s trust and once you lost it, it was almost impossible to regain. At least, Eve hoped it was _almost_ impossible.

“What was your first email address?”

“magic_drwatson@hotmail.com” Eve colours lightly, but makes it a point to be honest this time.

Oksana howls with laughter. “Doctor Watson? Side-kick to Sherlock?”

“Hey! I was fourteen and one could argue that Doctor Watson was all the brain and all the badass without the narcissist’s need to be the centre of attention all the time!”

Oksana’s eyes widen with amusement. “Oh you were obsessed!”

“What was yours?”

“I’ve never had one.” Oksana stops walking. “Here! This is it. You’ll love this place.”

They’ve stopped outside the most nondescript door. The old wood blends into the walls and there are no signs, no lights, just a dusty doormat on the ground with a barely visible ‘welcome home’ stitched into it. They make their way inside the dimly lit restaurant, up the stairs and take a seat near a small blue window pane. The waitress, older and grey with knotted fingers and a gentle toothless smile, comes to the table with a basket of warm bread and a half bottle of Catalan wine.

“Mija! It has been so long. Where is the old man?” The old lady places the bread down and leans in to kiss Oksana on the cheek.

“Alba! You’re still alive!”

“Don’t be cheeky mija. Where is Konstantin?” The old lady asks again, Eve feeling cautious and curious.

“The old fart is dead. This is my lover, Eve.” Oksana tucks into the warm bread drizzled with olive oil. Eve’s mouth agape at the bluntness of her statements; the latter mostly.

“Oh, Eve, it is nice to meet you. You are beautiful, eh? I’m sorry to hear about Konstantin, mija.”

“No matter. I am hungry Alba. Will you feed us?” Oksana pours the wine.

“Of course.”  The old lady leaves, a sad smile on her face.

Oksana doesn’t look at Eve for a while, instead focusing on the bread and wine in front of her. Eve can see the worry lines deepen in Oksana’s forehead, her eyes unmoving and she knows the young blonde is battling with some other new feeling for the ‘old fart’.

“I want to find The Twelve and destroy them.” Eve states. Oksana’s eyes flash up at her. Eve grabs a piece of bread.

“I need you to help me do it.” Eve continues. “I need to know who your targets are, how you communicate with others, who you know, what you know. I just need you to tell me everything.”

“Or… we could stay like this for the next two weeks. Happy. Free. Then you go back to your life, I go back to mine. Maybe we meet on occasion, when I am not working.” Oksana shrugs, stuffing her mouth with more bread. Eve’s fist slams down on the table, Oksana chokes in shock.

“Fuck you. Fuck you if you think that could ever work. I told you, Oksana. I have nothing. Except _you_. You are the key to The Twelve. And yes, you’re right, for some God forsaken reason I have feelings for you. So stop fucking around and help me.”

Oksana downs the rest of her wine. “It is a death sentence.”

“When has that ever stopped you, _Villanelle_?” She says the codename with as much sting as she can muster. Oksana is silent for a while.

“It never has before… because I only had to worry about myself. Now I have to consider you.” Oksana says, measured. What it translates to is _‘I care about you.’_ It isn’t lost on Eve and she immediately regrets her outburst.

“I can’t go back, Oksana. Not when I’ve met you and now you’re in my universe. I cannot be who I was before. I don’t know that version of me.”

Oksana watches Eve’s face, her eyes betraying warring emotions. Alba sets down a terracotta dish, filled with bubbling stew. There are big chunks of tender lamb, soft potatoes, bulging tomatoes, pearlescent beans and jade strips of cabbage. The rollercoaster of emotions Oksana keeps Eve on has made her famished. She piles her plate with meat and potatoes and beans. She scoops a forkful of beans and meat into her mouth and moans. All the stress and terror and frustration soothed; the soft, unctuous meat and buttery beans warms Eve from the inside. Oksana stares, a potato on her fork hanging in the air. When she is caught staring, she stuffs the potato straight into her mouth and averts her eyes. They eat in silence for a while, both letting the hot stew heal them.

Alba’s smiling face returns with a second plate and more wine. She places the plate of whole baby calamari, grilled to charry perfection and stuffed with rice, sausage and peppers, down between the two moody women and backs away.

“Mar i muntanya” Oksana stabs a baby calamari with her fork, a bit of rice squirting out the end. “It means sea and the mountains. That is the heart of Catalan food. It is clever use of location and resourcefulness.” She pops the calamari into her mouth, savouring the chewy bite. The fragrant rice in the middle is saucy and delicious. She can’t help but smile.

“Individually, the sea and the mountains are powerful. They make sense on their own. They have their own special ingredients. They are fine. Fish is fine. Meat and rice is fine.” Oksana pauses to take a sip of wine. Eve stares, listening to every word and feeling slightly confused.

“But together, they become something special. All the rich flavour of meat and rice, together with the freshness and saltiness of the sea, it becomes a very, very good thing.” Oksana eats some more. A few seconds pass and Eve is no less confused. She starts eating the calamari and is completely taken by how delicious it is. A subtle spiciness, saltiness and sweetness coats her mouth and comfort takes over. Eve moans softly as she relishes the flavours.

“I am the mountain; you are the sea.” Oksana mops up some sauce with a piece of bread and munches on it. Eve swallows. _‘What the fuck is happening?’_

“Um. Okay. Profound. So that’s a yes you’ll help me destroy The Twelve?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Great.” Awkward silence.

“I have a handler. A man from Barcelona, I think. Andrés. He picked me up from the hospital and took me to Berlin. We may not trust each other, but there is a mutual understanding. He told me to finish the job here, then he had to take a vacation for two weeks. He told me to take one too.”

Eve is hooked. “So you’ve done a job here? Who was it?”

Alba interrupts with a plate of thinly shaved jamon and more bread. “Mija, did you see the news today? Roderigo Casilla died yesterday from overdosing an unknown drug. You know, when you are a party boy that likes fancy cars and are surrounded by celebrities, that is what happens.” Alba tuts and walks away.

Oksana’s lips are pursed, a guilty look over her face.

“You’re joking.” Eve doesn’t know whether to be surprised or completely underwhelmed.

“He knew Camden. They both like cars.” Oksana stuffs a piece of bread loaded with oily ham into her mouth.

“Okay, and Camden knew Parsons. They were at the app launch together. So all three must be connected somehow. Tell me how you get a job and end it, start to finish.”

“A postcard turns up in my apartment or Andrés delivers it to me. Sometimes he comes to check on me before the job. The postcard has the targets name, location, sometimes their schedule, their office, other details like that. It tells me when I have to complete the job by, and what parameters I must stay within. Sometimes it has to look like suicide. Other times I have creative license. Andrés books my flights and accommodation. I do the job, I get to the meeting point at the right time, I get paid.” They both take a hearty drink of wine. Oksana leaves some money on the table and motions for Eve to start leaving. They walk slowly back down the street towards the hotel. She hasn’t said a word since leaving the table and Oksana wonders whether she’s second guessing her plans for vengeance.

“So how do they know when you’ve killed your target?” Eve finally asks, so conscious of the way calling Oksana’s murder victims ‘targets’ dehumanizes it and gives her a false sense of tolerance. Eve strays from the path back to the hotel, finding a small corner store. She wanders in, Oksana in tow.

“I suppose they are always watching. Konstantin and Andrés always seem to know what has happened.” Oksana eyes the packet of cigarettes Eve purchases. They are about to exit the little shop when the crackling television behind the counter announces “breaking news, Roderigo Casilla the late chief operating officer of Luana Automotora has been replaced by David Leung, a relatively unknown but extremely wealthy entrepreneur from Hong Kong.” A handsome, broad shouldered Asian man appears on screen. Oksana freezes.

“Eve.”

“What?”

“That man. David Leung. He was there with Camden and I saw him again yesterday with Andrés.”

Eve is already Googling the man. “There’s practically nothing on here about him. Did you interact with him at all?”

“I spilled hot water all over him.”

Eve frowns. “We need to track him. He obviously is part of The Twelve. We need to go back to London. Now. Kenny can help us.”

“But he is here in Barcelona. I say we kidnap him and interrogate him about The Twelve. Then we kill him. No need to involve anyone else.”

Eve stares motionless for a few seconds then wordlessly slips out of the store. She lights up a cigarette immediately and takes the longest, deepest drag she can. Oksana follows her, eyeing the cigarette.

“Jesus. Oksana. It just hit me that it might come to something like that.” Another shorter drag. “I might actually have to kill someone or watch you do it.”

“Are you okay with that?”

Eve stares at Oksana’s face for a long time. She takes a short drag of her cigarette and stubs it out under her shoe. She says nothing, simply heads back towards the hotel. Oksana keeps a few paces behind her, watching the muscles in Eve’s back and neck tighten with every few steps. When they get back into the penthouse, Eve immediately strips in the bedroom, Oksana close behind and kissing away the tension from those muscles. They don’t have sex, they don’t speak. They simply crawl into the bed, turn off the lights and Eve lets Oksana hold her, lets herself give in to the gravitational pull yet again, tightening her orbit around the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind comments. Wishing you all deliciousness and pleasure. 
> 
> Mati


	8. Sausages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: EXPLICIT VIOLENCE AND TRIGGERING SCENES IN THIS CHAPTER.  
> There are references to child abuse, rape and violence in this chapter. Read this chapter at your own discretion. 
> 
> **  
> Eve meets someone new and discovers some chilling history about her blonde raison d'etre.  
> Oksana realises it's not easy trying to keep Eve alive.

Oksana opens her eyes to dark, damp irises watching her, a thin-lipped frown and worry lines at its corners. Oksana smiles and much to her relief, the worry lines ease as Eve smiles back.

“Good morning.” Eve whispers, bringing a soft palm up to cup Oksana’s face.

“Good morning.”  Oksana wriggles closer to kiss Eve. The kiss deepens, Oksana inhales, Eve smells like fresh linen and cigarettes.

“When did you start smoking, Eve?” Oksana pulls back, her fingers playing with the ends of long curls.

“Sorry. Do you hate it? It just… seemed like the most natural thing to do before I left Paris. I was at a train station on the way to Charles De Gaulle. I just felt so wound up. I think I’m addicted now.” Eve tenses.

“I don’t like it, but I don’t hate it. I was surprised.” Oksana kisses her again reassuringly.

Eve’s fingers find the knotted scar on Oksana’s midriff, fingers grazing it as if to erase a disappointing stain. “I don’t know… if I can do it.” Eve watches her own fingers ghosting across the scar. Oksana stays perfectly still.

“I don’t know if I could kill and…” Eve’s voice evaporates.

Oksana’s muscles flex under Eve’s fingertips and her mind races. “You could.” Oksana says, honestly. Always honest.

“I mean I don’t know if I could kill and be okay afterwards. I don’t know if I want to be that person.” Eve’s fingers stop and she looks at Oksana’s face.

“You already are.” Oksana feels suddenly uncomfortable and gets up from the bed, starting towards the shower. Eve sits up.

“How would you know? What if I’m not that person?”

Oksana spins around, her arms crossed over her bare chest. “Eve, you are that person. Like it or not, you are capable. Maybe you will not be so good at first, but shadow me and I think you will learn quickly and maybe even like it.” Oksana gestures at her scar. Eve’s eyes bulge.

“Shadows!” Eve leaps from the bed and grabs her laptop from her bag. Oksana leaves Eve to her process, finally making it to the shower. By the time she emerges in a light, thin white t-shirt and pale blue jeans ripped around the knee caps she can’t help but smile at Eve’s flaring hair and concentrated face as she sits up in the bed, focused on her laptop.

Eve looks up. “Prashan Dastur.  I found him in Camden’s Facebook posts. There was one photo of him, Camden and Casilla at a race track. I called Kenny. Prashan is the director of an accounting firm with offices in the Middle East, Shenzhen, Hong Kong, London and Washington DC. He’s here in Barcelona.”

Oksana sits on the bed, her hand worming it’s way under the covers and finding a smooth, bare leg.

“Do you think Kenny is a risk?”

Eve blinks at Oksana’s question. “What? No. He’s a friend.” _‘Kenny wouldn’t turn us in…. I think.’_

Oksana’s hand slips out from under the covers and Eve feels the loss. “Friendship isn’t a guarantee, Eve. Is the accountant dead?”

“I don’t think so. There has been no word of it.” Eve responds and mentally files away Oksana’s mistrust of friendship to ask another time.

“So can your friend find where he is today?”

“Yeah. Kenny said Prashan’s assistant had him reserved at a restaurant two blocks away from Luana Automatora for 1PM.”

“You’ve already asked. Oh… Then you better get dressed.” Oksana’s arms are crossed again and she makes no move to look at or touch Eve. Eve has no choice but to get up in the awkward silence and head to the shower. When she’s dressed in a silky, rusty orange spaghetti strapped top and white linen wide-leg pants, she finds Oksana by the dining table, tucking in a handgun into the back of her jeans. Eve feels the tension thickening in her neck and shoulders. They make eye contact and head for the door wordlessly.

 

They are seated at the bar of the restaurant. It’s a trendy place with broad white spaces accented with timber bar tops, tables and chairs. Eve points out Prashan. His dark caramel skin is clear and smooth. His jet black hair is cropped neatly into short curls, his thick eyebrows sitting above brown-black eyes and a short, tasteful stubble. He’s quite young and the Panerai watch that sits proud and chunky on his skinny wrist gives away his wealth. Oksana observes the way he sits quietly facing the entrance way. His eyes are alert and he isn’t relaxed in his chair. _‘He’s anxious about this meeting’._ Moments later, a broad shouldered Asian man enters the restaurant and takes the seat opposite Prashan. Eve and Oksana remain completely silent, ears straining to hear the conversation.

“Prashan, you’re looking well.”

“David. Why did you get rid of Roderigo? He was the only one that could overwrite the order forms at the factory. Now where do you expect to put your little suitcases?” Prashan’s stiff posture doesn’t change. His Londoner accent is rather soothing in his deep voice.

“Relax, Prashan, it’s all under control.”

“He was a friend. He-”

“He was greedy.” David snaps and then turns towards the door. “Ah, Prashan, you remember my associate Scarlett, don’t you?”

A tall, skinny blonde with an edgy pixie cut leans in to meet Prashan’s cheek kiss. Oksana’s eyes narrow and she whispers to Eve. “I’ve seen that woman before. She was with David and Andrés at the hotel.”

Eve glances at the woman, catching her turning her face away to ignore David’s attempt at a kiss on her cheek. “Well she clearly doesn’t like David. So is she part of The Twelve? Is she an assassin?”

Oksana watches the pale woman in the reflection of the glass behind the bar. “Yes. I’d say she is.” There’s nothing obscenely murderous or outwardly suspicious about the woman. In fact, Scarlett seems to be a very poised character, simply confident in her beauty. But Oksana can feel the air change, the bloodlust running in the woman’s veins. Oksana senses it; there is the same unquenchable force inside the woman as the lava that ripples within herself.

“Prashan, have you prepared all the accounts and books for Hong Kong?”

Prashan takes a drink of water. “Of course. But if you need to make any changes, it has to be done before your ship leaves in two weeks and I’ll have to release the payment to Raz for the additional Sabbath he provided to you.”

David smiles. “Good. I need all the books. Now.”

“What? Why? They’re supposed to stay with me. Your boss made that clear.”  Prashan’s hands land on the table, bracing himself defensively.

“Oh no, change of plans. He wants me to take the books on a secure drive with me via private jet to Hong Kong. It won’t be necessary for you to join us. Scarlett will go with you to the office now and transfer the files to my drive.” David nods at Scarlett, his hand landing high on her thigh and riding upwards.

Scarlett stands abruptly. “Let’s go.” She hisses at the visibly paling accountant through gritted teeth. David laughs and runs the same hand up the back of her thigh and cups an ass cheek.  Scarlett smacks his hand away and glares at him.

“Fucking move.” She growls at Prashan. The two of them exit the restaurant as David clicks his fingers obnoxiously at a waiter.

Oksana’s eyes widen as she says “weird dynamic”, turning to Eve. But Eve has already hopped off her chair, following the accountant and the growly assassin.

They find their way into the building, inconspicuously following the accountant and his keeper towards the elevator hall. Eve and Oksana stay hidden around the corner, noting that no one else is boarding the elevator. The indicator reads that the elevator goes up to the eleventh floor. Oksana drags Eve into the next one and presses the button for the tenth floor. Neither has said a word but Oksana wonders if Eve’s eyebrows will ever unknit back to a normal shape given how tightly drawn they are. They silently pad up the fire stairwell to the eleventh floor, Oksana slowly and soundlessly opening the door with still, even breaths. Eve is almost panting aloud. Oksana shoots her a look and mouths ‘calm down.’ Eve wills herself to and peeks through the crack of the door. The floor is deserted but scattered with abandoned desks and ergonomic wheeled chairs. Prashan sits at a corner desk stacked with laptops blinking and Scarlett watching over his shoulder. Eve tries to push further into the room and Oksana’s hand snaps to her shoulder, gently pulling her back.

“No.” Oksana whispers.

“But –” Eve starts but falls silently as she hears Prashan speak.

“Transfer is complete. What are you going to do now?” Prashan hands over the drive to Scarlett. She smirks, slipping the drive into her inside jacket pocket. Her hand retracts smoothly, a pistol in hand. Prashan’s eyes widen, his thighs tensing against his fitted trousers as he pushes up to get out of his seat. It’s over in a split second, his head flies backwards, spraying blood and brain matter into the air, his body hurling over the ergonomic chair. Every little hair on every surface of Eve’s skin stands straight up. Oksana’s breathing stops. Scarlett kicks the chair away and bends down, crouching over Prashan’s head.

A few eerie seconds pass before Scarlett calls out towards the door. “I’ll count to three. One.”

“Eve, we’re leaving.” Oksana pulls at Eve’s elbow towards the flight of stairs.

“We can’t!”

“Two…” Scarlett stands, advancing towards the door.

“Move. Now.” Oksana hisses.

“Three.”

Eve bursts through the door. Scarlett stands still, pistol aimed right at Eve’s face. Oksana steps to Eve’s side not a second later, pistol aimed at Scarlett’s face.

Scarlett smiles. “Hello Villanelle.”

“Hello shadow.”

“It’s Scarlett right? You’re working for David. Is he your handler? Is he part of The Twelve? How do you know Villanelle? What’s on the drive?” Oksana and Scarlett both raise their eyebrows at Eve’s verbal diarrhea, her mouth motoring through the questions as her hands spread out in surrender.

Scarlett laughs. “Wow. Who are you?” Scarlett’s phone vibrates.

“Eve.”

Scarlett checks her phone and lowers her gun. “Eve. Huh.” Her eyes shamelessly trail down Eve’s body. “What are you doing here with Villanelle, Eve?”

Eve’s eyes dart towards Oksana who still has her gun pointed at the taller assassin, unwavering.

“Looking for you.” Eve says quickly.

“Well, I’m afraid I have to leave now. I’m sure we’ll meet again.” Scarlett walks towards the elevator nonchalantly and presses the button. The elevator dings and opens immediately. “It’ll be a shame though, as I will kill you both” Scarlett calls out, pressing the lobby button.

“What? Wh- where are you going?!” Eve yells against the closing doors.

Oksana blows out the breath she had been holding through pursed lips. “Let’s go Eve. Now.” Her hands feel clammy and yet the lava burns inside her chest like the sun.

“One second.” Eve is hurrying over to the laptops by the dead body. She glances once at Prashan and pales. With trembling hands, she disconnects the laptop, folds it up and follows Oksana out of the building. It isn’t until they’re a few blocks away from the office building, in broad day light and relatively more at ease that Eve speaks. “Kenny can analyse the laptop.”

Oksana stares ahead, avoiding looking at Eve and masking her face with an unreadable expression. The lava is spitting inside her and she feels uncomfortable. It’s a change, being worried about someone else. Oksana is not sure this is a good idea any more.

Eve senses the tension. “Oksana… She knew we were there. Scarlett.”

“Yes. She will be a problem.” Level-toned, matter-of-fact. No eye contact.

Eve sighs. “You don’t have to do this. You could leave. I don’t know how we’re going to sustain this anyway. What happens when your handler gets back? You can end this here. Disappear. Turn a blind eye on what I’m doing and –”

“I don’t want to leave.” Oksana cuts her off, stopping to look directly at Eve. _‘I don’t want to leave you.’_ “Turn a blind eye? How so, Eve? One day it will be either me or Scarlett with orders to kill you.” They stare at each other for a few seconds. Oksana resumes walking back to the hotel.

Once they’re back in the room, Oksana’s mood hasn’t lifted. Eve spins her around, drawing the young woman’s lips to her own. She kisses the stubborn frown tenderly, her body pressing into Oksana’s. It doesn’t take long for Oksana to respond, pulling Eve’s hips in closer.

“I really like you.” Eve says, breaking the kiss.

“Really?” Oksana smiles, leaning in for another kiss.

“Really.” Their make-out session is rudely interrupted by the grumbling of Oksana’s stomach and Eve smiles against her lips.

“Room service?” Eve asks Oksana whose eyes brighten immediately and she’s already by the phone and looking at the menu. Eve takes the opportunity to pour herself a generous glass of wine out on the balcony and light up a cigarette. Oksana is beside her moments later.

“Please tell me you’ve learnt to use _that_ since Russia.” Oksana blinks at Eve. Eve almost spits out the mouthful of Chardonnay.

“Uh…” Eve gapes. Oksana takes the liberty of reaching behind Eve’s thin top and pulls out the small pistol, her eyes suddenly serious.

“I took it from your dressing room…”

“I know. Eve, do you know how to use it?”

“Point and shoot?”

“Eve –” Oksana’s admonishment is silenced by the intercom ringing. The blonde rushes off to let the room service up into the penthouse. Eve takes a final drag of the cigarette, flicks it over the balcony and drains the rest of her wine.

Oksana has over-ordered. The table has been set with all the dishes: seared tuna sitting like little squares of quartz among an emerald nest of fresh garden leaves, spicy Merguez sausages nestled into creamy, yellow potato puree, a celebration of vibrantly coloured tomatoes, aubergine and zucchini glistening with olive oil and showing off charred marks, a silver platter of ruby-red jamon, a basket of warm bread,  caramelized golden pork sausages resting peacefully atop buttery, fat beans, and a third plate of short, stubby deep chocolate-coloured sausages surrounded by a mixture of crispy potatoes and jade broad beans in a bright tomato sauce.  Oksana has already started her attack on the sausages and beans when Eve realizes she’s also famished. They focus on eating for a few minutes, little sounds of pleasure coming out of Oksana. Eve stares at her, appreciating how much enjoyment the young woman gets out of food. She wonders where it comes from, whether she had always loved food. She notices Oksana slowing down, taking the time to munch on a few greens and tuna.

“What is your favourite food Oksana?” Eve may understand the electrical surges of passion and compulsion underneath the assassin, but there are so many _normal_ things that she’s unaware of.

“Sausages. Catalan food is good and has a lot of sausages. What about you, Eve?”

“Pastries. I adore all pastries.” Eve tops up their wine.

Oksana smiles at her. “Maybe Paris will be good for us. There are the best pastries.”

Eve frowns. “For what?”

“Once this is all over we will need somewhere to live, Eve.” Oksana stabs the last sausage and takes a huge bite out of it. Eve freezes.

 _‘We? To live? Together?’_ Eve swallows. She hadn’t really thought of what would happen if they got out of all this alive. “Is that what you want? To live together in Paris?”

Oksana drops her fork and leans back, stomach satisfied. She hadn’t over-ordered. “It might be what I want… if we don’t die.”

Eve leans back in her own chair and nods.

“So, what now Eve?”

“I need to get the laptop to Kenny. We need to go to London or he needs to come here.”

“That’s not a good idea Eve.”

“He won’t turn us in –”

“You don’t know that!” Oksana raises her voice. “You don’t know what he will or won’t do, Eve. Or his mother! You can’t trust someone just because they are friends.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Eve asks quietly. There’s no response for a while.

“I am going out.” Oksana stands up and makes a brisk exit. It’s a few hours later when Oksana returns, sufficiently cooled off. She slips into the suite silently and hears Eve talking to someone through her laptop. Eve notices her immediately and stops talking.

“Hello? Eve? Oh. Is she there?” Kenny’s voice comes out a little fuzzy through the laptop speakers. Oksana rolls her eyes and folds her arms.

“Kenny, so if I plug the laptop’s hard drive into my laptop then you can hack in remotely? We don’t have to physically see each other?” Eve keeps her eyes on Oksana’s tense form.

“Yeah, um, I can try. Go ahead and plug it in.” Kenny confirms. Eve attaches the drive via a cable. Oksana silently walks off towards the bathroom.

Eventually the bathroom door opens and Oksana sinks further into the bathtub, only her nose and eyes above the bubbles. She peers at Eve starting to undress. The water sloshes as Eve lowers herself into the steaming water. Oksana shuffles back and lets Eve lean into her. The grumpy woman can’t help but nuzzle her nose into the unruly black curls and slide her legs against Eve’s, relishing the slippery, silky glide.

“Kenny’s working on the drive now. I really believe Kenny will help us. I know you don’t trust him, but I need you to trust me.” Eve closes her eyes and revels in the feel of skin beneath her. Oksana wraps her arms around Eve, fingertips pressing into skin and softly massaging the tension from the day.

“… I will try.” Oksana genuinely wants to trust Eve completely, but she won’t be blinded by the warmth that spreads through her body with every touch and look. Eve had betrayed her once and Oksana had paid handsomely for it. Eve turns her head towards Oksana, her eyes full of regret and worry. Oksana can’t deal with that right now. The lava gurgles in her belly and she knows opening up this conversation will burn them both. Instead, she kisses Eve carefully. The water is cold by the time they get out, their fingers pruned and hearts just a little less heavy. They slip into robes and head into the kitchen for tea.

“Why do you like sausages?” Eve sits at the counter while the kettle boils.

Oksana chuckles. “There was a butcher on the last block of the street. One side filled with pink and red raw meat. The other side filled with delicious roast chickens and big, fat sausages. There were so many. Once in a while I got to taste them. They were the best.”

Eve is mesmerized. “Your parents bought them for you?” The kettle rumbled and clicked off.

“No. My mother was sick, my father spent all his money on alcohol.”

Eve takes the two mugs of tea to the couch, her mind flashing to her conversation with Anna. “So how did you taste the sausages?”

“I worked for the butcher. He paid me shit money, but occasionally fed me. I was too young for a job, but I had no problem killing the live chickens or butchering the pig carcasses so the butcher didn’t mind.”

Eve inhales sharply in surprise as she’s blowing on her tea, hot liquid searing her tongue. Oksana laughs.

“What happened to your parents?” Eve recovers.

“Mother died of cancer. I didn’t really know her. My memories are of her lying on a mattress on the floor too weak to…” Oksana quietens. She sips the tea and her face goes blank.

“to?” Eve prods. Oksana’s newfound openness was seductive; there was a mysterious edge in her stories that drew Eve deeper into the woman.  

“Where did you first taste pastries?” Oksana smiles over her mug at Eve, any vulnerability masked.

“Uh. I was four years old sitting in a London coffee shop with my parents. My father ordered me a pain au chocolat. I remember how crispy and crunchy the outside was and all the holes on the inside just collapsing. The chocolate was still soft too. It was so good I tried to feed it to my toy fox Freddy.” Eve chuckles the last part out and watches as Oksana’s eyes glitter and a genuinely warm smile spreads across her face.

“Freddy the fox? I had a rabbit once with very long ears and a pink nose called Sabi. My father used it to wipe his vomit off himself and then stubbed out a cigarette on its face. When he caught me cleaning it he ripped it’s head off and threw it in the trash. He was an asshole until he died. Got in a horrible accident.” Oksana sips more tea. Eve stares.

“Staring is rude, Eve.”

“Sorry.”

“You asked.”

“I did.” Awkward silence.

Eve dares. “Did you...” Not daring enough.

“What, Eve?”

“Your father… what accident?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Oksana puts down the tea and lock her eyes onto Eve’s.

“Did you kill him?”

Oksana doesn’t blink. Eve swallows and puts down her tea.

“What accident? Tell me.” Eve braces herself, the ocean swelling inside her, her mind sounding off every alarm and fear response she has.

“He fell down and lost his penis.” Oksana’s face is a shell, uncracked, unmoving.

Eve stares, her mouth hanging open. “T-tell me what happened.”

Oksana’s eyes flash and the ocean within Eve is a full blown tempest, her blood is icy and her skin is fire.

“I came home from the butcher. I still had a knife with me. My father was on top of my mother’s body. He was raping her. Her eyes were screaming for help but her body was like a skeleton and he had his hand over her mouth. I pulled him out of her. He hit his head on the table corner by _accident_. I stabbed him in the chest and cut off his penis. The butcher had been following me to get his knife back and had seen what happened. He packed me a bag, put me in his truck and took me to Moscow.”

Eve feels like her breath has been knocked out of her.

“I miss his sausages.” Oksana sips more tea.

Eve feels sick but her eyes meet Oksana’s testing, searching eyes. Eve doesn’t have the words. Suddenly Prashan’s hollow head lying in a pool of thickening blood fills her mind, montaged with Scarlett’s smirk, Oksana’s bleeding abdomen, Frank’s pallid body in the chic dress and Bill’s smiling face. Eve feels like throwing up and sobbing and laughing and running far away. Instead, she gets up and walks out onto the balcony for a cigarette. Oksana doesn’t follow and Eve is thankful for the space. Her mind reels, diving into dramatised details of Oksana’s retelling and how she must have felt on her way to Moscow. Eve nauseates herself with imaginary scenes of arriving in the cold city, walking into a new school and Anna, ‘ _oh, Anna’_. Lying in a halo of her own blood on recently vacuumed carpet, the barrel of a pistol burned into her chin, Anna had been drawn to Oksana also and it had cost her everything, even her life. At this moment the only thing Eve had left was a beating heart, a spiraling mind and sometimes not even a breath.

When Eve re-enters the living room with an awkward clearing of her throat, Oksana watches her fold herself at the foot of the sofa.

“There are studies that suggest trauma at an early age can be a relevant factor in the development of psychopathic traits. There are stronger studies suggesting it’s correlated. Any basic statistician would know that correlation doesn’t equal causation though.” When the words finally end, Eve sucks in a breath sharply. Her heart thumps in her chest and she feels her neck muscles twist. She hadn’t meant to say all of that, but it spilled out like it was the most rational thing to say. She watches the deadly woman across from her; Oksana’s facial muscles are relaxed, dormant. Her eyes are glassy and void of emotion. Eve is pretty sure she’s said something completely and utterly stupid. They remain quiet for a long time; Eve’s breathing eventually evening out.  

“Are you afraid of me?” Oksana breaks the silence.

Eve thinks for a second. “Sometimes.”

Oksana purses her lips. “It seems we both need to learn to trust each other. Why are you afraid of me?”

The bitterness slams into Eve, the ocean inside developing waves of disappointment and leaving her cold. She knows it isn’t fair to expect Oksana to trust her after everything but she was here now, in Barcelona, sharing a bed, bath and tiresome emotional rollercoaster with her. On the other hand, Eve felt her own fear was completely justified. The woman had just described her adolescent experience of castrating her own father for God’s sake.

“I’m not always afraid of you, Oksana. I’m just afraid that you’ll –” Eve is interrupted by the telephone. Oksana reaches over and presses the speaker button.

“Yes?” The background noise from the speaker comes to life.

“Miss Davis, it’s Susy from concierge. Your friend Scarlett has arrived. Shall I send her up?”  

Eve and Oksana stare at each other.

Eve speaks. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos! I am still very passionate about this story, but it has been hard to find time to update.  
> Have you guys seen the season 2 photos? I am so excited. Still no news on the release date though?
> 
> Mati


	9. Portuguese Tarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle is reminded that she isn't untouchable. Trouble is coming.   
> Eve discovers that sometimes it's too hard to deal with feelings. What is she consumed by? Villanelle or the chase?

Oksana stares at Eve for a few seconds, eyes widened. Eve pales and before she can say anything Oksana is arming herself with a loaded gun and hiding a chef’s knife between the seat of the sofa and the armrest. The elevator rumbles, Eve’s heart races. Oksana glances at Eve.

“Point and shoot?” Eve asks quietly. Oksana nods. The elevator dings.

The doors slide open and Scarlett walks into the suite, her hips swaying slightly as she looks around. The air chills, the predator circling.

“Lovely place. Looks like you’ve got excellent taste Villanelle.” Scarlett observes, removing her leather jacket and tossing it onto the marble kitchen island. Her white singlet hugs her body tightly, nipples poking against the fabric. “Hello Eve.” The intruder lets her eyes roam slowly over Eve’s body as she approaches. Eve notices and finds her own eyes pausing on Scarlett’s chest. Villanelle is quick to step between them.

“Hello Shadow. You really should give us a chance to miss you.” Villanelle forces a smile.

“How did you find us? Does The Twelve know we’re here?” Eve cuts the weird, slow foreplay.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”  Scarlett addresses Eve mostly.

Eve moves towards the open wine bottle on the kitchen counter. “White okay?”

“Perfect.”

For a moment there is only the sound of wine being poured and Scarlett landing herself in the single sofa chair at the other end of the room. Eve brings the glass over to Scarlett, placing it on the coffee table in front of her. Eve freezes as Scarlett raises her hand and twirls an errant curl of dark hair around her finger.  Scarlett smells like wood and vanilla; dark and daring. Eve has a sudden urge to lick her lips.

“Do not touch her.” Villanelle’s gun is level with Scarlett’s smug smile. “Eve, get back.”

Eve steps back, quickly. Scarlett raises both hands before picking up the glass and taking a large sip.

“Why are you here?” Villanelle’s unreadable mask is back in place, her body blocking any direct line between the other assassin and Eve.

“I’ve never met another asset before. I’m just satisfying my curiosity. I’ve heard a few rumours about the great Villanelle who was _almost_ compromised by a wily British Intelligence Officer but managed to be pulled back from the edge by the benevolence of higher powers.” Scarlett sniffs, her smug smile returning as she watches Villanelle. “Clearly _almost_ means certainly”. Another large sip. Villanelle wants to break her face. The magma roars and she imagines impaling Scarlett’s pale throat with a bread knife.

Scarlett continues. “I do work for The Twelve. My current job is to baby sit David, the new COO of Luana and dispose of the accountant. The Twelve know that Villanelle is still in Barcelona, but maybe not exactly where she is or… _who_ she is with.”

Eve almost pushes Villanelle aside. “How? How do they know Villanelle hasn’t left the country? How did you hear of Villanelle?”

Scarlett laughs, her eyes shining with amusement at how easily sucked in Eve is. “Passports, credit cards, bank accounts, anything with a possible paper trail that is needed to get out of this country in a civil fashion is monitored by them, obviously.  Andrés is usually always watching somehow, but he seems to have gone on holiday. Any idea where, Villanelle?”

“No idea.”

“Are you going to kill us? You said you were going to kill us the next time you saw us. How did you get involved with The Twelve? Where are you from? What is Sabbath? What are The Twelve’s plans?”  Eve keeps her distance while she rapid fires.

“My God, your questions are annoying.” Scarlett looks amused. Villanelle nods enthusiastically but keeps the gun trained on the predator.

“Although I don’t mind watching your pretty lips move.” Scarlett winks. Villanelle practically growls.

Eve folds her arms. “Talk.”

Scarlett stands, somehow seeming taller than before, and advances towards them. Eve stands her ground, her hand reaching around to the pistol in the back of her belt. Villanelle sets her jaw, almost baring her teeth in a bulldog kind of way.

“Try anything stupid and I’ll make sure they tear your girlfriend limb from limb while you watch.” Scarlett says, low and slow, her eyes completely devoid of any emotion and boring into Villanelle’s. Eve almost whimpers, her hands shaking and the ocean inside her chilling with frost and darkness. She can see the vein pulse and swell in Villanelle’s neck like magma charging beneath thin ground, and the tiny fault in her grip tells Eve that Villanelle has certainly considered standing down.

“You’ll never sleep, you’ll never sit in one place too long because they will hunt you. You think you and I are equal? Let’s test that theory.” Before Villanelle can make a smart-arse comment, Scarlett’s hand snaps up to Villanelle’s wrist, wrenching it up towards her face and thumb nail digging sharply into skin. Villanelle grits her teeth, grunting in pain. Scarlett’s other hand strikes out like a snare around the Russian’s neck. “I’m faster, stronger and I’m not compromised, Villanelle.”

“STOP!” Eve has the tiny pistol pointed at Scarlett’s head, both hands wrapped white-knuckled around the grip. Villanelle is turning purple. Scarlett turns to Eve, her eyes suddenly dilated as she takes in the sight of the desperate woman. “You look extremely fuckable right now, Eve.” She drops Villanelle like a rag doll.

Eve feels the ice crystalise in every vein. She doesn’t know what to say next. She looks at Villanelle heaving for air on the floor. Scarlett kicks the gun away and shrugs. “Only a matter of time before they tell me to kill you both.” Scarlett takes her jacket and waits for the elevator. “See you both again soon.”

As soon as the elevator door close, Eve helps Oksana to her feet and inspects her wrist. “Are you alright?”  

Oksana snatches her wrist away, fury blazing in her face. “Don’t.” Eve is taken aback and watches as Oksana heads into the bedroom and closes the door behind her. Several cigarettes later, Eve slips into the bedroom and lays down next to a wide-awake Oksana.

“I’m sorry Oksana.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry I let her come up here.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry you got hurt.”

Silence.

“You leave. First thing in the morning, pack your bags and go.” Oksana’s voice is hollow and unwavering.

“What? Where? Why? Oksana -” Eve can’t help the tears beginning to form.

“Go home. This is over.”

“No, baby, please. I’m sorry.” Eve tries to fend off hysterics, she grabs at Oksana’s face, kisses desperately at her lips and jaw, tries to pull herself as close as possible. Oksana simply turns her back and shrugs the clawing hand from her shoulder. The ocean rages against the foot of the mountain, clashing against its stony shore, desperately seeking any entrance. The mountain stands unmoved, soundless and vast.

Eve rubs crust from her eyes, her tongue feeling like sandpaper and her throat dry and sore. She realizes she is alone, no enticing smells from the kitchen, only deafening silence. Eve finds her half unpacked suitcase and some of her clothes to be the only thing inhabiting the wardrobe. There’s a note on the jewelery table along with a plane ticket.

_It is better this way. Oksana_

“What the actual fuck?!” Eve scrunches up the note and looks at the ticket. The flight leaves in the early afternoon for London.

At the gate early, waiting to board the plane, Eve turns on her laptop. She has several missed messages from Kenny who has uncovered documents from the drive. Several invoices for “parts and labour” have been noted going to repeated accounts in London and Hong Kong. _‘$100,000 for parts and labour every month seems steep’_ Eve thinks. There are also several file notes with chemical equations and running balance sheets with the name “Raz” listed on them and several calendar meetings for next week in Hong Kong. Eve can’t even pretend to care about them right now. All she thinks about is Oksana’s eyes swirled with grey and green, muddle with a little brown and completely, utterly empty. She thinks of Oksana telling her to leave, the finality of it all. Perhaps Oksana felt her physical wounds were an embarrassing sign of inferiority and weakness. Eve had never thought of Oksana as weak. If anything, the way last night had played out only proved the humanness of Oksana. She wasn’t some villain with superhuman skills; she was flesh and bone, capable of being bruised and bloodied. Eve had known that ever since she watched the blood pour out of the stab wound in Paris like a leaky pipe.  That very moment had solidified the infatuation Eve had for the complicated woman. Oksana was real, with warmth and pride and yes, _feelings_. She was far from the psychopath her files had characterized her as. _‘Psychopath! Fuck me, I called her a psycho again!’_ Eve felt winded. She snapped the laptop shut and hurried to the nearest bathroom.

Eve splashes cold water over her face, her heart sinking. She has no idea where Oksana went, no idea of when they will next see each other. She exits the bathroom, dialing Oksana’s mobile number. She places the phone against her ear and jumps slightly as she notices a young man standing by the entrance to the ladies’ toilet eyeing her. She gets to Oksana’s voicemail.

“Oksana. Please. Tell me where you are. Can we talk about this? I’m sorry I called you a psychopath. Please, call me.” Eve ends the call, her heart picking up pace as she becomes aware of the young man following her. He’s in a black t-shirt, dark jeans and motorbike boots. He follows a good fifteen paces behind. Eve hastens. The man follows suit. He’s gaining speed on her and she still has to pass an empty gate and round the corner before there’s even a sign of another person. Her heart pounds and she tries to think of what she can use as a weapon. She quickly turns her phone camera to selfie mode and begins snapping photos of her stalker. She starts picking up the pace, almost breaking into a run. She gasps as a slightly older man in a denim jacket and forest green slacks rounds the corner and makes a direct line for her.

“Ah! Evie, there you are, I have found the perfect gift at the duty free store. Come!” The man has a thick Russian accent and smoothly takes her arm, gripping it tightly.

“I am a friend. Do not panic. Move quickly.” The Russian man whispers gruffly in Eve’s ear. She nods. Peering behind her, the young man has disappeared. Much to Eve’s surprise, she is actually led to the duty free shop where they both pretend to browse perfumes near a very busy gate.

“Your flight has been changed to this one. You’ll land at Berlin Tegel airport. Do not worry about your luggage. We will take care of that for you. When you land, go immediately to the pick-up area. You’ll meet a friend.” The man hands her a new ticket.

“Wh-Who are you? Who do you work for?” Eve is about to have a panic attack.

“If you ever want to see Villanelle alive again, do as I say.” With that, the man leaves, not waiting to watch Eve’s mind short-circuit. Boarding is announced and Eve doesn’t hesitate to get on the plane.

 

Villanelle almost stomps up the stairs to the loft apartment, feeling overall pissed off. She was remotely grateful that her flight got into Berlin a lot earlier than planned. Perhaps she had time for a bath before Andrés stopped by. Last night had been terrible. She had wanted to roll over and smother Eve’s stupid crying with her pillow. All the dormant rage for Scarlett was now surfacing and Villanelle had been relieved at the text from Andrés this morning, long before the sun rose.

_Honey, vacation ended early. Time to get back to work. Meet me at home as early as you can tomorrow._

She had packed her things and thought about waking Eve to kiss her goodbye. Logic got the better of her and Villanelle wrote a note and had concierge bring up a printed ticket. Villanelle was right, she was _always_ right; if she discouraged Eve enough then her investigation would stop. There would be no chance of her being dismembered by The Twelve or hunted by that _‘pale as shit Scarlett’_. God, how she craved knocking out her shiny teeth with the barrel of a gun and blowing her brains out the back of her head. Villanelle unlocked her apartment door and walked in, surprised to find a man with short, curly hair and a strong jaw line kneeling over a very bloodied and very dead, slender Asian man.

“Shit.” The curly haired man yanked a pistol from his belt and with a swift kick, shattering a couple fingers by the sounds of it, Villanelle had disarmed him. Curly howled with pain, unsheathing a knife from his boot with his uninjured hand and lunging at Villanelle.

“Who are you?” Villanelle got down low, charging into the man’s midriff, spilling him over the dead body and onto the floor. Blood smeared and stuck to their hands and clothes. Curly bucked and kicked, knocking Villanelle off balance. She fell backwards, sprawling and clawing desperately for the gun a few metres from her. The man stumbled to his feet, knife raised. He snarled and lunged again. Luck was on Villanelle’s side, she rolled over, gun cocked and perfectly aimed. Two shots to the heart and Curly dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Villanelle was on high alert, fire spitting through her and breathing rapidly through her nose. She scrambled to check Curly was dead. She peered at the Asian man. “And who the fuck are _you?_ ” She kicked his corpse, fresh blood still leaking through his chest wounds. No ID, no cash, nothing on either body. She checked her watch, Andrés would be here within minutes and she knew that would be the end of her. Whatever he was setting her up for here was intended to put her away for a very long time. She hurried to the kitchen, grabbing a fresh passport, credit cards and cash from the flour tin on the top shelf. She heard the slightest creak of the floorboards and whipped around, barrel still warm from the last shot.

“We need to go.” His gravelly voice haunting. Villanelle stared at Konstantin, her lips curling slowly into a smile.

“You’re not hiding a log under that coat are you?” Villanelle gestured with the gun.

“Now, Villanelle.” Konstantin replied sternly. He turned on his heel and started walking out the door. Villanelle followed. They got into the waiting car outside the front gate, a rather unremarkable Prius. Villanelle slid into the back passenger seat, closing the door and suddenly freezing as she looked at those famous knotted eyebrows and the thin line of those lips she worshipped.

“Eve.” Villanelle finally breathes out.

“You dick.” Eve spits, turning to stare out her window. She is royally pissed.

Konstantin peers in the rear-view mirror at the two of them. His eyes meet Villanelle’s wide glossy ones and he shakes his head, tossing her a slightly greasy paper bag along with two warm coffee cups. Villanelle eagerly stuffs her hand into the bag and pulls out one of two Portuguese tarts. She catches Eve staring at the bag and offers the other tart to her. Eve snatches the bag and helps herself to a cup of coffee.

Eve’s head is pounding, a blunt pain hammering rhythmically against her temple and she feels like sobbing. She takes a bite of the flakey pastry, it’s stone cold. She had been absolutely shocked to have found Konstantin waiting for her at the pick-up line. He had said that there was ‘a lot to talk about’ and that for now, she needed to ‘just go along with it’. There was no choice. The thought of losing Oksana struck Eve like lightning and thunder in the middle of a dark and stormy ocean. The cacophonous roar of loss and regret and fear overwhelming all other senses. If that wasn’t scary or confusing enough, the sudden realization that Oksana could cut Eve off so easily felt like the complete opposite, it felt like death. It killed every part of Eve; the ocean was silent and still and lifeless. It hurt to need and to want to be so close to Oksana, all the time. It was fucking draining. Eve’s lips are sticky with the creamy custard and caramelized sugar. The sweet richness is the comfort she needs right now; perfectly balanced against the bitter luke-warm coffee. It’s not much, but it’s normalcy. She chances a glance at Oksana who is still staring at her, about to swallow the last mouthful of her pastry already as she practically cowers on her side of the car. The nasty bruise around her neck stands out against her skin. Eve does all she can to keep her face neutral, but she spots a flake of pastry on Oksana’s upper lip and can’t stop her thumb from reaching it and brushing it off gently. As soon as Eve’s thumb caresses Oksana’s lip, the blonde’s hand snaps up to Eve’s and brings it down to her lap, squeezing and latching on to it for dear life through the sticky, shiny residue of sugar. Eve closes her eyes, exhaustion setting in. _‘Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s better if we end this now. Our last meal… A Portuguese tart in the back of a Prius driving through suburban Berlin. That’s about as normal and ending as we’ll get.’_ Eve lets sleep takeover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long gaps between chapters. This one was especially hard for me to write. This is probably the fifth version of it and even then I'm not as in love with it as the other chapters. It's hard to write action and create a universe beyond our two favourite characters. There were so many iterations of Scarlett's personality... I settled on trying to convey a much more savage, inconsiderate, less-human version of her. It helped me balance the humanity we're discovering in Villanelle. Hope you liked the chapter! 
> 
> Mati


	10. Draniki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication is key in a relationship, eh? A lot less action in this chapter, but I like how we can get a glimpse into some backstory. By the way, draniki are like latkes or potato cakes.

The Prius rolls to a rocky stop, Eve's head swings forward, jerking her awake. The first thing she becomes aware of is the damp heat surrounding her right hand. She looks down and finds Oksana's hand encasing hers. Oksana is staring out the window. They've parked in front of a one story, wood paneled home. The car tips clumsily as Konstantin pulls himself out of the front and proceeds to enter the house, a questioning glance tossed back towards them. 

"Where are we?" 

Oksana turns to Eve, eyes shiny and voice shaky. "Some shithole many hours outside the city."

Eve pulls her hand from the warm grip and rubs her eyes. The sun had long set and white paint peels off the front of the house, the wooden window panes worn and weather-damaged. The gutter on the roof hangs precariously and suffers streaks of rust. The solid dark wood door hangs open, Konstantin already inside. Eve glances once at Oksana's concerned face and wordlessly exits the car.  _'Asshole.'_ Oksana quickly follows suit, grabbing the bags off Eve and narrowly saving her fingers from Eve slamming the trunk shut. _'Rude.'_  Oksana wouldn't dare say it aloud right now though. She watches Eve's tired form stomp into the shitty house. As far as Oksana is concerned, Eve was being melodramatic. Eve should be _thanking_  her for putting her first and saving her from Scarlett's dismemberment _and_  certain death. Eve's crusade to topple The Twelve was unrealistic. Oksana had realised that truth as she choked into Scarlett's face. There was a blood-curdling look of pleasure that crept into Scarlett's eyes as Oksana's own vision darkened around the edges. A few seconds longer and Oksana would have passed out and Eve would have been dead. Her ringing ears, boiling blood but quickly-freezing body hadn't been a fear response to Scarlett's attack, it was in response to the fact that Eve would cease to exist. She would be erased and Oksana was rendered powerless to stop it. Yes, as far as Oksana was concerned, she did the right thing by sending Eve away. Yes, Oksana was being  _compassionate_ and Eve should be thanking her.

The inside of the house did very little to change first impressions. The wooden floor was worn, mottled in differing shades of greyish brown. The white paint continued peeling on the interior walls. Old and rickety wooden furniture stood like lonely islands around the house. The small square dining table with only three chairs sat in a small alcove along with a pale sideboard with a few dusty wine goblets on top. Across the open room was an old fire place with ornate iron trimmings dressed in soot. There was only one couch beside it, tattered and lumpy. Eve sighed heavily. Truthfully, she missed her home with Niko. It was warm and inviting, cluttered with memories and  _stuff_. Eve removes her scarf, dragging her feet down the short hallway which opened up into a vast, open kitchen. There were no toasters or cute kettles on the bare kitchen benches. There was simply a cob-webbed window, a stained stove top, a dripping tap and a whining fridge in the corner. Konstantin had busied himself with a small pot of boiling water on the stove. 

_"_ Tea?" He asks, not looking at Eve.

"Please."

Eve peers down either wing of the kitchen, seeing a bedroom at each end. She decides to go right and finds a large bed with a faded blanket in the room beside a wire rack to hang her clothes. She sits on the bed and stretches her neck, enjoying the relief as her joints crack deliciously.  _'I can't do this.'_ She feels the pressure rebuild in her neck and shoulders and she wants to lie down and a small sob escapes her. For a split second her mind entertains the idea of moving to Brighton, living by the sea and raising a few chickens. She could find a job at the local college teaching social psychology and cognitive theory. She could spend her evenings sipping wine and reading in the bathtub with a cigarette and cold pizza. One night maybe she might have had too much to drink or the fact that she'd wasted breath on another half-arsed student laying on the excuses for submitting a late paper earlier that day had simply exhausted her, she'd slip into deep slumber and slide beneath the water surface. She'd drown. Drown of sheer boredom. Maybe the cigarette would alight the bath mat, eventually enveloping the entire house in flames and boiling her unconscious body.  

 

"Eve!" Konstantin's gruff voice shakes Eve from her sad fantasy. She walks out of the room and finds her cup of tea waiting for her between Konstantin and Villanelle at the dining table. 

"Start explaining this shit now." Eve takes a sip of her tea, addressing Konstantin mostly. 

"I no longer work for The Twelve. I've been offered some protections by British Intelligence." Konstantin says levelly.  Eve snorts.

"Of course. Carolyn is a dear friend after all." Eve drawls. 

This time Villanelle snorts and rolls her eyes. Konstantin ignores both of them.

"Neither of you are safe. The organisation has clearly sent someone to kill you, Eve, and Andrés wants you put away for a very long time, Villanelle." He sips his tea as he both pairs of eyes on him widen.

"Who tried to kill her?" Villlanelle practically shouts.

"There was a man following me at the airport in Barcelona. Jannik, an associate of Konstantin's, helped me escape. He changed my flight. That's how I got to Berlin." Eve said coolly, watching the realisation that she was never safe at all sink into Villanelle's brain. 

"Who was it? I will kill him." Villanelle grits out. 

"We don't know. Just like we don't know who the two dead men are in your apartment." Konstantin cuts in. "But I assure you they will keep coming for you both." 

"So what do we do?" Eve lets a little fear creep into her voice. 

"We stick together. I can help to protect you. But I need something in return." Konstantin stares intently at Eve. 

Eve's mouth goes dry. There is always a give and take with Konstantin and he has done little to prove himself trustworthy. "What do you need?"

"Part of my deal with British Intelligence is to dismantle The Twelve. Unfortunately they haven't given me an army. I'll need you both to help me. We get rid of The Twelve, then there is no more threat to your lives. You go on with your lives." Konstantin turns to Villanelle, his eyes pleading and trusting. 

In contrast, Villanelle's eyes are empty and Eve is so exhausted and terrified that Konstantin's words don't come as a shock. In fact they seem purely logical, normal. 

"Tell me everything you know." The words slip past Eve's lips, softly. Her eyes move from Konstantin to Villanelle. God she looks beautiful, even though she's exhausted and statuesque, Eve lets her eyes trace the features of the young face. The large, almond eyes slightly glassy and surrounded by smooth, bright skin. Eve imagines trailing kisses down the sharp jawline, hearing gasps escape the full, tender lips, she imagines painting over the fading bruise on Villanelle's neck with a soft tongue. Eve can't help being captivated by her beauty and yet, in this moment, Villanelle feels so foreign and distant like an island shrouded in midnight clouds far across a choppy ocean. Eve can't muster the will to swim across. 

 

Konstantin begins his long and elaborate recollections of The Twelve. He had been recruited by The Twelve after their observations of him during his time as a young and promising Russian intelligence officer. The signing bonus was enough to pay the deposit on the lake house. With Irina on the way and a wife he adored, it felt like fate. At first, his job had been simple and separated far enough from any superior fate-altering, death-inducing forces within the organisation to toy with his conscience. He simply identified criminals and military personnel that showed particular psychological traits. Eventually Konstantin was promoted to training recruits in sleight of hand, self-defense and espionage. Konstantin relished how the fruits of his tutoring manifested into highly skilled operatives. The organisation kept paying him well. There was no reason to stop. He could care less for the targets and those at the top of the organisation were still unknown entities to him. The assassinations never threw the world out of balance. In fact, it was the opposite in Konstantin's mind; it kept balance. Then he found Villanelle. At first, it was the same story. Then the relationships between the targets and the ripples their deaths caused became apparent very quickly. Eve's hunt became too risky. Villanelle was meant to stay in prison in Moscow. The Twelve clearly still found her valuable enough to break her out. She was their most effective asset after all. The Twelve still assumed Konstantin was dead. The fact that he was not, played into their advantage. "It changes the game. They will not be expecting us to fight back."  Konstantin stopped and watched Eve's face. 

 

Eve had lost her breath. The whole story was some sick James Bond film and yet there was lightening and thunder back in her veins. Blood rushed like whitewater rapids and her ears burned. It was so much worse than she had imagined. It was true; there was an organisation with a god-complex functioning in the darkest shadows of the world, pulling strings and slitting throats all in this perverse 'game of thrones'. Eve looked at Villanelle and was surprised to find her eyes cast downward, eyebrows knitted and hands picking unconsciously at the paint on the table. "What happened when you got out of hospital?" Eve's voice croaks. 

Villanelle raises her head slowly, making eye contact with Eve and Konstantin. "It was as if nothing happened.  Andrés put me in the flat in Berlin and had me assessed. I passed with flying colours of course. I went back to doing my job. Then I was sent to England and now here we are." 

Konstantin's lips turn downwards. "Tell us what you know about Andrés." 

Villanelle sneers. "Jealous? Don't worry Konstantin, you may be old but you are still my favourite." Konstantin's eyes narrow. 

"Fine. Relax old man. Andrés is very private. I am not his only asset. I know he was doing business with David and Scarlett. I saw them at the hotel. This was the first time Andrés insisted on coming with me on the job but I know he is a local to Barcelona. He said he was going on vacation and disappeared for a few days. I received a letter from him early this morning at the hotel asking me to return to Berlin. I managed to change my flight to an earlier one. When I got back to my apartment, a man with curly hair was setting up a dead body on the floor. I surprised him and killed him. Now here we are." 

Villanelle folds her arms and chews her bottom lip. Her stomach growls loudly at the same time that Eve softly asks "why did you send me away?"

Konstantin takes that as his cue. He checks his watch, it was late and they had eaten forever ago. "I'll look after dinner." The chair scrapes back noisily as he abruptly stands and hurries to the kitchen. 

"To protect you." Oksana makes direct eye contact with Eve. It feels a little uncomfortable.

"By sending my away on my own? How would you have protected me?" Eve folds her arms, mirroring the defensiveness.

"If Scarlett was going to go after one of us, it would be me, Eve-" 

"Or she'd come after me and use me as bait to lure you in, you dick." Eve interrupts. "You think you're right all the time. You think you can just make decisions and I'll accept them. You can't. There are consequences."

"What? Like when you decided to confront Scarlett in the office or invite her into the hotel?" Oksana growls. 

Eve feels like ice water has been thrown on her. She can see the veins bulge through the purple-green bruises on Oksana's neck. "That... that's different..." It comes out a lot weaker than she expected. 

"Yes. It is, Eve. You chose to put us in danger, and I am choosing to protect you. I am not used to having to protect another person and yet you seem to keep putting yourself in danger without even thinking about me or telling me your thoughts. This is the first time... The first time that I am....Argh, you are being reckless and endangering your life but asking me to be your body guard and when I do protect you, you are angry." Oksana stands up so roughly the chair knocks over and she stomps away leaving Eve stunned. It isn't until Eve hears the bedroom door slam that she lets out her breath.   _'The first time, what?'_  

 

Eve finds Konstantin busy in the kitchen grating yellowy potatoes on a dented box grater. Eve makes another cup of tea, sipping slowly as she watches his calloused hands mix the potato ribbons with onion, flour and egg. He scrunches handfuls of the mixture and drops them into a hot skillet, the aroma of browning butter making Eve's mouth water. 

"I know you don't trust me yet, Eve. But there is something we have in common that will tie us together." Konstantin flips one of the potato cakes, well pleased with the golden brown crispiness revealed. 

"What is it?" Eve asks.

The bedroom door behind her swings open, slamming against the wall and a loud, excited voice shouts out. "Draniki! Konstantin, you made my favourite?"  

Both Konstantin and Eve jump at the intrusion. Konstantin raises his eyebrows at Eve. "Her." He points with the spatula at the assassin plodding excitedly over to the kitchen. Eve lets out a little laugh and shakes her head. 

"Every thing is your favourite, Villanelle." Konstantin turns his attention back to the potato cakes, stacking them onto a plate. 

"Yes, but your draniki are the best. It may be worth having to sleep in this shit hole." Villanelle replies excitedly, yanking open a drawer and collecting forks.  

The three of them end up back at the table, with a plump potato pillow in front of each of them. Eve cuts ones of the cakes open tenderly and when the steam hits her nose the sweet caramelised onion and butter potatoes almost sends her stomach into a frenzy. She takes a bite. It's utterly delicious. Before she even swallows the first mouthful, she's shoveling in the second. She chances a glance at Villanelle and much to her surprise, she hasn't even started. Instead, the green eyes are focused so intently on Eve's mouth. 

"Draniki sometimes have meat stuffed inside them, but Konstantin makes them plain. They are the best." Villanelle says before quickly shoving half of one into her mouth. 

Konstantin smiles. "My mother's recipe. When we didn't have meat, she did this. I made them for Villanelle the first time we were doing water drills across Lake Beloye."

"During the coldest, shittiest month." Villanelle adds, helping herself to her third pancake.

Eve looks entranced. God, she thirsted after these little nuggets of information from Villanelle's past. She imagines the semi-frozen lake, the dead silence of nature around them, Konstantin sitting next to a tiny fire watching Villanelle swim laps of the lake, alone.  _'God, she must have been alone a lot.'_

"Andrés is most likely a keeper. We need to find him. The only people that will know more about him and The Twelve are David and Scarlett." Konstantin brings both women back to reality. 

"How did you know to go to Villanelle's apartment?" Eve speaks up, reeling back into reality. 

"I asked Jannik to help me keep an eye on the apartment as well as the both of you. I don't know who broke in. Jannik has been my eyes and ears for a long time. He will tell us where Scarlett is heading next."  Konstantin begins clearing the plates. 

Both women sit in silence, somehow unable to make eye contact. Feeling awkward, Oksana is the first to stand and wordlessly heads to the bedroom. Eve sits a little longer. The first couple of days in Barcelona were unforgettable. The salt-licked air, the smell of citrus and cigarattes and coal burning ovens, the food; rich and delicate, the stolen kisses, the chance touches, the complete collision of their bodies; the wetness and the softness. A warmth churns low in Eve's belly just at the memories. Barcelona had shown Eve a stylishness, freedom and elegance about Oksana that left her completely mesmerised. As the week delved into chaos, Eve found herself confronted by a more raw, instinctive side of Oksana. There was a childlike mischief to the killer that was fun and naughty and everything that amused Eve. Then there was a sharp shrewdness and maturity that appeared in Oksana, borne from her survival instincts. The thought of discovering the complete history and creation of Oksana chilled Eve to the bones and left her breathless. God, she  _craved_  the young woman.

 

The door creaks open and Oksana looks up from her lying position on the bed, one eyebrow raised as Eve slinks into the room. "There's only one bed..." Eve starts, not really knowing where the sentence is going and observing Oksana's stillness. She looks fairly relaxed, in an old cotton t-shirt about three sizes too big for her and only her underwear. 

"There's a couch." Oksana replies, her accent highlighting the last word. Oksana looks back down at her fingers, picking at each other as they rest on her stomach. She doesn't mean it. Hell, she'd already chosen the right side of the bed knowing Eve favoured the left. Eve sits in the empty space, tucking her hair behind her ears and removing her shoes. Oksana watches silently, the yellow glow from the lamp on the wall making Eve's skin look a lot warmer, softer. Oksana quickly averts her gaze when Eve lies down and faces her. 

"I know you were trying to protect me." Eve cautiously raises a hand to place on top of Oksana's fidgeting ones. All movement stills. 

"I know you felt hurt. But it is better than being dead, no?" Oksana mumbles. 

"I am so sorry you got hurt too." Eve's hand traces slowly up to the bruises on Oksana's neck. With just a little more force, she tilts Oksana's face towards her and kisses her. Eve feels tension melt out of her at the softness of Oksana's lips against her own. They're cool and smooth and Eve keeps kissing them for a while. Eventually, Eve rolls on top of Oksana, straddling her waist. 

"Earlier... you said something about this being the first time. First time what?" 

"The first time I care about keeping another person alive." Oksana replies as a matter of fact. 

Eve's breath hitches and she leans down to kiss the woman under her hard. Oksana's hands reactively tangle into Eve's hair. "I really like you.” Eve says, breaking the kiss.

“Really?” Oksana whispers, her hands running up and down Eve's thighs straddling either side of her. 

“Really.” Eve's eyes flutter shut and she rolls her hips. The pressure feels so good. Oksana breathes deeply and bucks her hips gently upwards. Eve continues to ride her, getting lost in the pleasure. Her head rolls back, her mouth open and panting. There's a wetness pooling between them and Oksana growls, sitting up to capture Eve's lips in her own. Eve keeps rolling into Oksana's hips, building sweet tension as her top is pulled off her torso and her bra roughly pulled downwards. The cold air hits Eve's breast and she feels her nipple tighten. The friction against her clit is addictive and the moans escaping Oksana below her wind her up even tighter. Oksana's hot mouth engulfs the hard nipple her teeth drag against Eve's soft skin. Fingers frantically try to slip down the front of Eve's pants, but Eve stops them. 

"No." A few pants. "Just like this. God." She rocks her hips faster, thrusting into Oksana. Eve lets out a gravelly moan. "I'm so close." Their eyes meet, dilated and dark. Oksana feels all the muscles contract in Eve's back, her thighs squeeze around Oksana's hips and Eve's face scrunches up as she moans deeply, slowing down her hips. Eve rests her forehead against Oksana as the younger woman's thumbs caress the smooth skin on her lower back. 

Suddenly, Oksana's arms envelope her, pulling her weight on top Oksana as she lies back down. Eve tries to roll off so they can spoon. 

"No." Oksana's arms tighten. "Just like this." Oksana says. Eve can't help but sigh contently. ' _Brighton sounds fucking boring anyway_ '. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the hiatus. I have been dealing with some health issues and find it hard to write at times. Thank you so much for the kudos and comments. Your feedback is always appreciated. I pray the next chapter will not be so far away. 
> 
> Season 2 is finally out and I am absolutely loving it. It's far from what I had expected and it was a seamless transition from Season 1 finale. What do you guys think?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. This is my first ever piece. I hope you'll enjoy discovering the soul, pain and humanity of Eve and Oksana with me. 
> 
> \- Matiese x.


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